The Marrowbone Marble Company (21 page)

“What time do the titty dancers take the stage?” Erm asked. He smiled. His tooth bridge had darkened a shade. His nose wore burgundy vessels matching those in his eyes.

“Erm, you remember Bob Staples.” Ledford stepped aside and Bob leaned in for a shake.

“How are you Erm?” Bob said. That politician smile was on again.

“I'm up a grand thanks to your Shenandoah bangtails,” Erm said.

“Say again?”

“Erm plays the horses up at Charles Town.” Ledford wished Bob would skedaddle. The mention of Charlie Ball had turned his stomach.

“Oh,” Bob said. “You enjoy the races?”

“That your convertible in the lot Bob?” Erm thumbed toward the gate.

“It is. Bought it new last year.”

“How many miles you put on it?”

“Oh, I think about two thousand or thereabouts.”

Fury spit on his finger and bent to rub mud off his brogans.

Erm breathed in the smell of damp burning timber from the oil drum. “Ledford,” he said, “you got shit burgers on the menu tonight?”

Ledford watched Fury. The boy rubbed and rubbed at his shoe until no trace of dirt could be found.

“Well, I'd better go check on my brother,” Bob said. “Nice to see you again Erm. Nice to meet you young man.” Bob ambled off in the direction of the chapel.

Erm called after him. “We'll catch up later big Bob, big butter and egg man.” He laughed and produced his flask. Spun the top off with a flick of the thumb. “Convertible Bobby,” he said to Ledford. Then to his boy, “Stand up straight Fury.”

“I didn't think the state's centennial was your style,” Ledford said.

“C'mon now, Ledford. You know I love Virginia.” Erm winked. He liked to get under the skin of his old friend.

Ledford looked at Fury. There was something unsettling about him. Ledford tried to make eye contact. “Fury, Willy's up at the gym if you want to go see him.”

The boy walked off, slow and silent. “Goddamned teenagers,” Erm said.

Herchel and Jerry slid on their work gloves and tipped the fiery barrel into a trench they'd dug that morning. They tossed foil-wrapped squashes and onions into the coals. Sparks danced invisible on the evening air. The sun was getting low on the ridge, and the lot was filling with cars.

By five-thirty, people were walking in from the woods.

At six, two Corvair vans pulled in, trailed by a station wagon. Each van wore a white stripe down the side, and inside the stripe had been painted the words
Radiant Light Gospel Choir
. J. Carl Mitchum was at the wheel of the first, his wife the second. Eighteen singers unloaded—men in dark suits and women in pink-and-purple dresses. Their hats reached high and their heels made tracks in the mud. Each member hung a dry-cleaned choir gown over their arm, still in the bag. They strode up the Cut in a pack. Their children jumped from the crowded station wagon and followed.

Effie was the first to spot them. She ran over and hugged her mother and father. All around, white folks stared. Many had come for the free barbeque and punch. Few of them had known what to expect from the strange folks at Marrowbone, and fewer still had ever seen so many black folks in one place.

One local man, a skinny, out-of-work miner, took a long look at the parade of gospel singers and promptly swallowed what punch was left in his Dixie cup. He told his wife and daughter to do the same, and then they all set them down on a picnic table and walked back into the woods.

Mack turned the hand crank slow and steady on the rotisserie he'd fashioned for the occasion. The pig's flesh was reddish brown and split at the armpits. The skewer ran through it, ass to mouth, and Mack had rigged up its legs with coat-hanger wire.

He checked his wristwatch. The pig had been over the coals for just shy of five hours. That morning, Dimple and Wimpy had told him six would suffice. They'd taken Mack and Ledford to W. D. Ray's place, where the pig was asleep under a bench on the porch. Bedded down on an old dirty quilt. They'd paid Mr. Ray a hundred dollars for it and returned to the old butcher building, where Mack and Ledford had watched one brother hold the pig still on a block-top table while the other one stuck a ten-inch knife in its neck and rolled his wrist. The pig screamed for a full minute, a sound not unlike a child's, while a wide jettison of blood rushed forth from the hole. It spattered the boots and pantcuffs of the twins, who paid no mind. It gathered and ran in a line to the pitched floor's daisy drain. Ledford had walked out. Mack had nearly lost his stomach.

At 6:30, inside the tent, Ledford took the stage. He tapped the microphone and said, “Evenin.” People meandered in. Ledford estimated their number to be 150. The TV station had sent a reporter and a cameraman. They stood in the far right corner, whispering and fanning themselves with newspapers. In the far left was Mary, perched on a folding chair and rolling her own footage. “I want to thank all of you for comin,” Ledford said. The microphone whistled. “Tonight we celebrate the centennial birthday of this great state.” A few clapped and hollered. “And we also celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the first official batch of the Marrowbone Marble Company.” There were a few more celebratory calls. “But that is not all this day will mark. As some of you know, mine and Rachel's youngest boy Orb claims June twentieth as his birthday. And this one makes ten.”

Down front, Willy hoisted Orb on his shoulders and began to dance in a circle. He whooped as he went, and the crowd applauded the boy. Orb looked this way and that, then up at the tent's center post. He put his hands to his ears and a few people laughed.

“Orb's got his own way of things,” Ledford said. “And that's something else I'd like to speak on, if you'll permit me, for just a moment before we get to all the eating and music.” His voice was loud through the PA. It seemed to echo. “What I mean is, Orb has his own way of going about life. He doesn't see things the way most do.” Ledford cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “And I for one admire that breed of sight. Vision, you might say. I see it at work every day around me here at Marrowbone Cut, a new vision of how life can be.” His voice quivered. He looked at the floor. “I am a glass man,” he said. It had grown quiet. The katydids called from the trees.

The choir members and their children had all grouped at the left of the stage. All except the littlest ones stood close and looked around, as if expecting an ambush.

Ledford coughed into his hand. “There's some literature on the table up here by the stage. It tells about our profit-sharing system for employees, our food and clothing pantry in the chapel.” He'd wanted to say more on the vision he had for Marrowbone, but couldn't. He looked out at the people, their faces tinted orange, evening sun through tent walls. He went on, “We can't hardly keep up with the demand for playing marbles, and Mack Wells' invention of the Ringer cross-rack has caught on. So, if anyone's out of a job, come on in and see me.”

He searched the crowd for J. Carl Mitchum, but instead found fat Charlie Ball, who stood next to Erm, of all people. The two of them whispered back and forth, laughed a little. It was unnerving. Ledford shook it off and continued. “And we put our heads together with others as much as we can. The West Virginia Human Rights Commission, to name one. We're happy to have the vice president of that commission here this evening, Mr. J. Carl Mitchum.” Ledford pointed to him and J. Carl waved a hand. “We're honored to have you sir, and your gospel choir.” He surveyed the crowd again. Looked back at Charlie Ball, who was handing a business card to Erm. The spotlight Jerry had rigged up was getting hot. Sweat ran cool down Ledford's spine. “The Radiant Light Choir is going to sing for us a little later,” he said, “and we've got a boxing exhibition and a marble surprise for the children. So go on and fill up on the barbeque and all, and have a good time.”

Some applauded and some did not. Bob Staples looked at his pocketwatch.

Rachel had made her famous coleslaw. She and Lizzie stuck slotted spoons into it, four bowls' worth. “Enough to feed an army,” Rachel said.

Lizzie nodded. Around her, the choir members shuffled to find a place in the buffet line and white folks in hand-me-downs kept their eyes on their own. A quiet had befallen all.

Stretch Hayes had brought along his mother. He introduced her to Rachel as they came through the line. Mrs. Hayes wore gauze over one ear, an elastic bandage circling her head. She spoke loudly. “Does my son talk with respect out here?” she asked. Rachel said he did.

At seven-thirty, Jimmy Ballard arrived in a black Cadillac. He was a pro fighter, a contender for the welterweight title. He was the youngest son of Mr. Ballard, the filling station owner from Ledford's old neighborhood, and he'd spent his formative years in Ledford's boyhood home.

Jimmy Ballard was a celebrity.

A makeshift ring had been set up on the lawn by the big garden. Ballard stepped inside and raised his arms over his head. He unbuttoned his pressed shirt and winked at the women. Mack gloved him up. Ballard cracked his neck. He wore pinstripe suit pants, black wingtips, and no shirt, and he waved his gloved hands at the gathering crowd.

Willy climbed through the ropes across from him. His mouthpiece was already in and his headgear tied tight. He punched himself in the jaw a few times and danced on his toes.

Paul Maynard had declined the invitation to oversee the exhibition. There were a few others from the Maynard clan present, including Hambone and his older sister, Josephine. Josephine had her eye on Willy, whom she'd kissed the previous Saturday night.

Ledford stood between his son and Jimmy Ballard. “This is all in good fun folks,” he said. “Mr. Ballard here has been nice enough to make a contribution to our food and clothing pantry fund.” There was clapping. Ballard waved again. “And boys,” Ledford spun on the balls of his feet and surveyed them. They were black and white, young and lean. “If any of you care to work hard and follow rules, our gym is open Monday through Thursday, five to eight.”

When Mack struck the bell with his hammer, Willy came out of his corner like a bull at the gate. Ballard slipped the left, but Willy caught him with a roundhouse right. It stunned the older fighter, and it stunned everyone watching.

Ballard kept him at bay after that, working his jab and trying not to let one go on the kid. His expression went from charitable to frustrated.

In the third and final round, Willy again sent one home, this time a left hook. Ballard's knees gave momentarily, and when he righted himself, he had to dance to avoid another one. When Mack sounded the final bell, Ballard hugged Willy and whispered to him, “You're really good kid. I almost had to beat your ass.”

Everyone whooped and hollered and some of the anxiousness fell away. Wayne County white boys and Sixteenth Street black boys jumped the turnbuckles and shot their skinny arms forward and back, shadowboxing around the ring and laughing.

Before he left, Jimmy Ballard gave his autograph to any who asked. At eight-thirty, Mack led a procession to the twenty-foot surprise. A patchwork cover was draped over what looked to be a giant Christmas tree in the Wells front yard. Lizzie and Rachel had stitched together moth-bit bedsheets and holey paint tarps to cover what waited beneath. The sun was setting, and its last rays peeked over the ridge, illuminating the faces of the children. They craned their necks and looked up, wide-eyed. Mack gathered a length of rope attached to the top. “All right, children,” he said. “I want you to count down from five.”

They did so, gaining volume as they went. At the shout of “ONE!” Mack pulled the rope and the musical marble tree appeared. None knew quite what it was, but the young ones oohed and aahed anyway. “Orb,” Mack said. “You're the birthday boy. You do the honors.”

Orb stepped front and center. He looked up at the fixed wooden planks of the giant marble tree. They spiraled the thick center pole, jutting like dorsal plates on a dinosaur, thick and smooth. Mack and Herb pulled up a twenty-foot A-frame ladder. It seemed to sway at the middle.

“Be careful,” Rachel said. Her hand was to her mouth. She couldn't help but picture Orb falling from that height, his insides bleeding out.

“I'll stay right behind him,” Mack said.

And he did. He followed the boy to the top, one hand on the ladder, the other waiting and open under Orb's backside just in case. On Mack's back was a heavy satchel. Inside the satchel were five giant marbles, hand-rolled by Ledford and weighing five pounds each. There were more down below.

At the top, the two of them leaned over and braced against the uppermost leaf plank. Together, they held the satchel aloft and let the giant marbles fall, one at a time. Mack's spacing was perfect, as was the angle of the planks. The marbles rolled and plunked and played a tune as they went, spiraling downward and singing out
ploink ploink ploink
as they went, deeper and deeper in pitch, faster and faster, like some giant xylophone.

When all had dropped to the ground, there was a moment's silence, and then the children ran forth to touch the marbles, big as softballs and swirled blue and green.

Each of them took a turn, two at a time. They began to carry with them their own bags of Marrowbone marbles, dropping the small along with the big, bending their ears to the intricate differences in song, marveling that such an instrument was real.

When it had gotten too dark to safely scale the ladder, all were called back to the tent, and the Radiant Light Gospel Choir took the stage. At the end of the first riser, Orb stood among them, the only one without a robe. In the audience, black and white stood shoulder to shoulder and listened as Herb ran the bow across his new fiddle and turned the pegs.

J. Carl stepped to the microphone and said, “This state is the only one born of the Civil War, a war whose end saw the cessation of slavery.” His voice came from deep down, low and steady. “Tonight marks a hundred years since those times, and it reminds us how far we have yet to go.” It was quiet. Then, J. Carl said, “This one is for Medgar Evers.”