The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (84 page)

Francis Veter laughs. “Well.”

“We can order another, Uncle Francis?”

“Go on.”

“Whyn't you jus tell me?”

“Oh. I guess I didn't know if you'd feel funny about it.”

“Why? Cuz
I
don't own a hardware store?”

“Well you was the smart one. An anyway. I didn't wantchu to think it was charity.”

“Is it?”

“You need a job, Randall, I need a worker, I don't call that charity.”

“Cuz the thing is. The only reason I got that shoe store job was connections. Klan connections, an you see how well
that
panned out.”

“You ain't no damn salesman!
I'm
hirin you for what you can do. That you an I also have a philosophical meetin a minds, that's just a plus.”

“Well I ain't that interested in the Klan no more. I ain't been to a meetin in I don't know when an can't say ever was a time I was a member in good standin.”

“You were at the high school an the voter registration. Far as I'm concerned that speaks a lot louder n just a lotta hogwash secret societin without no action behind it.”

Randall doesn't believe it. Every time he thinks his luck might finally be turning around it just transforms into some new backhanded degradation. He'd thought this Francis Veter might have been the
one
person not looking down on him.

“Hey Randall.”

“I want the job. I appreciate the offer, I need the job, I want the job.” Francis Veter smiles and holds out his hand. They shake.

“I'm glad. I know you don't like to hear this, but I always admired ya. Means a lot to have someone I respect in my employ.”

“Hey, Uncle Francis, Grandaddy ever show you that nigger ear?” The boys start giggling.

“What chaw laughin about.”

“When we was over there this summer he takes out this little black hard thing claims it's a nigger ear.”

“You think it ain't true?”

“I think Grandaddy's full of it.”

“Me too.”

Here he goes, plunging into some new enterprise. Well he didn't have much choice in the matter, he needs a blamed job. And he sees Martin's face, his goddamn superior attitude, the day he took Randall aside to show him the graph chart, like his poor salesmanship made him less a man.
I'll kill that son of a bitch.
Randall throws back the shot and slams the glass down. “Another.”

“Those days they chartered trains for the events.”

“No!”

“Course his family couldn't afford that, eleven kids. Still, they had the horse an the wagon.”

“Horse an the wagon!” The boys squealing.

“Thousands. My daddy's family in the back but little as he was, he remembers. The cryin out a the big ape coward as they're dippin him in an outa the fire. His daddy had to pay a pretty penny, but bought every one a his sons somethin. Course their sisters disappointed they got no souvenirs. My uncles given chips a the kidney or intestine, but that charcoal ear my daddy got.
That
was the prize.”

He sees Aaron kicking the shit out of Benja, their kids staring wild-eyed. One of the little boys trying to help his mother, and his daddy hurling him aside, punching Benja in the face, punching Benja till she's out, dead for all he knew.
I'll kill that goddamn bastard.
Randall throws back the shot and slams the glass down. “Another.”

“Uncle Francis, we ever tell you bout that nigger we knocked out cold?”

“What?” Francis Veter smiles.

“Some outa-town nigger, I don't know what his business was, all in this fancy suit. So he got out his car, lookin aroun all perplexed. An me an Louis seen him, I whisper the plan. Louis go up to him, ‘You lost? I help ya?' An he ask Louis for directions, and Louis give em to him, an he smile all grateful, then I come up from behind. ‘Hello.' He turn aroun confused
Pow!
I sock him, he lyin on the ground out, one blow! Then all the kids comin up, ‘What's that nigger doin on the ground?' When he come to he look at us scared, then stagger on back to his car.” The three of them hooting, slapping their thighs. “Wonder he ever found where he was goin? Louis give him some good directions.”

He sees that nigger lawyer, thinking he's bringing all his precious generosity to the poor white charity case, his shoes, his goddamn
used
medium-quality shoes. And his
arrogance
to just toss his head in Randall's direction,
I brought these in case some Negro needed em, but then.
In the blur Randall needs to bring the glass close to his eyes before aiming for his mouth,
I'll kill that black nigger.
He throws back the shot and slams the glass down. “Another.”

Francis Veter slips off the barstool and swings the outside door open wide. The pounding shower, everyone in the establishment turning to it except Randall. “God I love the smell a the rain!” Francis Veter turns back to his party. “Yaw want somethin to eat?”

“Yeah!” But Randall hears neither the question nor the nephews' enthusiastic response, throwing back his shot and slamming the glass down. “Another.”

“No other. I got this,” Francis Veter tells the bartender, pulling out his wallet. “Come on, Randall, we need to put some substance in our bellies fore we come staggerin home, have the wives shoot us.” Randall tries to stand but has considerable trouble. Francis Veter laughs and gives him a hand. “This is exactly why I planned on takin off tomarra. Well, guess your wife won't be too miffed once you tell her boutcher new gainful employment.” They move toward the door, Francis Veter's arm around an unsteady Randall. “We got the whole night together, buddy,” and they walk out into the dusk.

**

During the drive back to the Coatses', Eliot's mind drifts to the little boys. He and Diana and Steven had immediately petitioned for an appeal and are awaiting a reply. They're quite hopeful their request will be granted, and if not are ready to petition to higher courts until it is. Meanwhile little Max and Jordan have remained incarcerated, and it sickens him to imagine the horrors they may be undergoing even at this very moment. It's been over a month since the hearing. How'd that
happen?
He sighs, anxious to get back to his files in the office Friday.

They walk into the house, Martha heading straight to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Eliot and Jeremiah sit in the living room, lost in their own thoughts. When Leona keeps chattily interrupting these meditations, her grandmother comes to the doorway, softly instructing her to come help with supper, and the girl grudgingly obeys. Eliot hears Martha murmuring that when someone dies you have to respect other people's quiet, and after that only cooking sounds emanate from the kitchen. Without looking at Eliot, Jeremiah remarks, “Sure wish we coulda met Roy.”

“I only met him briefly. He seemed like a very nice man.”

And Eliot remembers that he forgot to call about Mr. Yancey. The voter registration, the elder's arrest and beating in police custody—hard to believe it all had happened just yesterday. This reminds him about the other call, to the car owner about the delayed return of the borrowed vehicle. Eliot asks Jeremiah if he might use their telephone, attached to the kitchen wall.

Eliot contacts Warren, the local NAACP rep, to ascertain the gentleman's condition. He is relieved to learn that Mr. Yancey has improved and is expected to be released from the hospital in two to three days. Just as he is dialing the second number, the sky abruptly darkens, and a streak crashes loud followed immediately by a cloudburst, leaving the house in darkness, the phone dead. Jeremiah comes out to the kitchen. “Gonna flood. Might clear up by mornin, might not. You absolutely welcome to stay with us, but goin on 5:30. If you plannin on travelin back to Rosie's tonight, you gotta leave now, before dark.”

As Eliot grabs his suitcase, Jeremiah says, “Soon's you get outa Prayer Ridge might be all clear. Our weather got nothin to do with Nathan's.”

“Wish I could call Rosie, let em know to expect ya,” says Martha, handing Eliot a bowl of chicken she just fried. “We seem to get the phone knocked out every storm, might last a hour, might last a week.” She sighs. “Oh well, be a pleasant surprise. I could tell she really wanted you to stay.”

Low beams in the blinding rain, Eliot drives through the fresh flood in The Bowl, then moves slowly through the shallow mud road, intermittently slick. Gradually the sheets moderate to a drizzle. Eliot remembers how much he enjoyed occasional floods as a child, having never experienced a devastating one. Sneaking out into the new river in the street before his mother caught him, the squishing of his loafers, the cool between his toes.

**

Randall's old Chevy truck is parked across the small lot from Francis Veter's new Ford. In the downpour, the boys run to get in the bed of their uncle's vehicle, covering themselves in a large piece of blue
tarpaulin. After Randall tries thrice unsuccessfully to put his key into his lock, Francis Veter leads him to the passenger side of the Ford.

“You ain't gettin behine
no
wheel till you start seein one key steada three.”

Francis Veter drives to the Chik 2 Go and orders two buckets of barbecued wings, two coffees, and two Coca-Colas. The rain lets up and he pulls over, everyone sitting in the back of the truck. Around them are a multitude of bricks tied with rope, shovels, buckets, and trowels, as well as assorted bottles of alcohol: six-packs of beer and Jack Daniel's.

“Mention I'm buildin a outdoor grill beside the pool?” says Francis Veter by way of explanation. Other than that they eat in silence till Blonder says, “I gotta piss,” then the other, “Me too.” They go off into the nearby weeds.

“I'll be doin that soon myself,” says Randall, “but I won't be needin me no buddy.”

Francis Veter laughs. “I could never figure you out, Randall.”

Randall drops a wing on his pants. He picks it up, wipes up the red-orange sauce with his finger, licks his finger, then goes back to eating.

“Tonight's been kinda your job interview.”

“Has it.”

“Well, jus to see if we got along.”

Randall takes a rest from the gluttony, leaning back against the truck side. He hadn't realized he was so hungry.

“I always wondered why you didn't go on to high school. College.”

“Sometimes we don't get to choose, the choice come to us ready made.”

“Oh yeah, your daddy. That was a shame.”

“Say how come you know so much about me?”

“I don't know. Guess in school I always looked up to the smart ones.” He laughs. “An then to see ya when we was kids at the Klan rally, an, what? Month later at the debate? I jus thought you was goin places.”

Randall sighs and looks into the distance. Getting real goddamn sober.

“I ain't no stalker,” Francis Veter laughs, “an I ain't no pervert. My wife an me was high school sweethearts an still is. Before her there was a couple rolls in the hay with my cousin Vickie Jean. Only one marriage infraction, long ago, barmaid out in Wally so jus to be clear, my taste is strickly toward the female gender. But, like I said, my admiration for the ones got a head on their shoulders. An every so often I'd wonder about that debate kid, did he ever amount to anything. Then I see you at the school demonstration. Yep. He damn sure did.”

“Can we go now, Uncle Francis?” The boys returning. “We're ready to go.”

“Yeah!”

Randall sips his coffee. “Guess I'm ready too, wife be wondrin. Soon's I piss.”

“Tell ya what. Gimme half-hour more? I made a promise to the boys to take em out along the road there for a minute.”

Randall pees in the weeds. Dark falling, be just his luck to discover later this fine flora was poison ivy. He looks at the truck in the distance, the three standing around it. He'd like to walk away. The alcohol's got him yearning for his bed, and this Francis Veter's odd. Then again why's he so damn suspicious that someone actually admires him. Martin hired him but had him on probation from the beginning and never let him off. This job on the other hand, this position with someone who trusts him from the get-go. He zips his fly.

“Just a half-hour. Right?”

Francis Veter grins. “Glad you comin along, Randall, glad you made that choice.” He laughs. “See, guess we disagree a bit. You said some choices come ready made. Well, true, you
was
a kid when your daddy passed, but by the time we adults I feel choices ain't just handed to us, I believe we always got some say in the matter.”

“I hope we get a rabbit!” says one of them.

“Or a squirrel!”

“Night huntin. Ever done it?” Randall, who has done no hunting, shakes his head. “This eerie quality. You the hunter but you can't see, gotta go by sound. Then: whites a the eyes.” The boys have pulled out rifles. “Don't worry,” their uncle chuckles, “I had it in mind all along to invite ya, brung you a shotgun too.”

“Or a polecat!” the less blond boy says. The brothers crack their rifles, and load them.

**

Seven miles outside town, halfway between Prayer Ridge and Nathan, the sky has completely cleared but to be safe Eliot continues driving slowly on the damp road. It will add ten minutes to his half-hour drive so he'll pull into Rosie's just at nightfall.

Eliot had loathed the racist reasoning in Steven's summation, yet he presumed it would have had some impact on that cracker judge. It seems the defense team had vastly underestimated the depth of the bench's bigoted resolve, to be willing without batting an eyelash to maintain this vicious severance of two little boys from all their loved ones in order to teach them, and by proxy all colored children, some lesson in the sacred Southern Code of Ethics. When it was all over, Eliot had wondered whether he had made a fatal mistake that last night in Diana's basement by not even bringing to the table the notes he'd been scribbling in the corner. What if, the judge would have been queried, every teacher in every school who caught students kissing be placed under legal obligation to report the incident as an attempted rape to the authorities? Little Jordan had testified that his kissing playmate Ginny Dodgson was just imitating her big brother Beeber and his girlfriend. Shouldn't then Beeber be arrested? Charged with a felony? At the time Eliot had capitulated to Steven, and while he didn't regret that choice per se, he wonders now whether Steven's argument might have been fortified by Eliot's notions.