The Second Coming (38 page)

Then the spot became part of a country club, the exact patch of grass in the concavity of a kidney-shaped bunker on number-six fairway. For twenty years winter and summer thousands of golf balls, cart tires, spiked shoes crossed the spot.

After twenty years the country club became a subdivision. The spot was the corner of a lot where a ranch-style house was built for a dentist named Sam Gold. Weeds grew in the fence corner where not even the Yazoo Master mower could reach and covered an iron horseshoe for ten years. Though Sam Gold was a Jew, places meant nothing to him. One place, even Jerusalem, was like any other place. Why did he, Will Barrett, who was not a Jew, miss the Jerusalem he had never had and which meant nothing to Sam Gold, who was a Jew?

After twenty-five years the subdivision became a shopping center, with a paved parking lot of forty acres. The spot was now located in the mall between the Orange Julius stand and the entrances to H&R Block. The mall was crowded with shoppers for twenty years.

Now it was deserted. When he came to years from now, he was lying on the spot. The skylight of the mall was broken. The terrazzo was cracked. Grass sprouted. Somewhere close, water ran. Old tax forms blew out of H&R Block. A raccoon lived in the Orange Julius stand. No one was there. Yet something moved and someone spoke. Maybe it was D'Lo. No. Was it Allie? No, nobody. No, somebody was there all right. Someone spoke: Very well, since you've insisted on it, here it is, the green-stick Rosebud gold-bug matador, the great distinguished thing.

The ocean was not far away.

As he turned to see who said it and who it was, there was a flash of light then darkness then light again.

III

SUNLIGHT SHONE IN
his eyes, then someone came between, then sunlight shone in his eyes again.

“Could it be? It is. Is that you, Will?”

“Yes,” he said, instantly awake, a thousand miles from his dreams, as unsurprised as if he were back in his office again. “Who—?” Holding a hand against the sun, he tried to make out the dark eclipsed face inside its bright corona of hair. What he recognized was the Alabama quirky-lilting voice and the way the round bare shoulder hitched up a little. “Kitty.” He sat up.

“You stood me up, you dog. You no good scoun'l beast. Look at you. You're a mess! Happy birthday yesterday.”

“What? Oh.”

“We had a date in your summerhouse. Don't you remember?”

He smiled. “What day was that?” What year was that? It pleased him that she was no more than mildly outraged and evidently found nothing remarkable in his absence or his appearance or finding him asleep in a car and looking like Ben Gunn. “I was called away suddenly,” he said. “I only just got back.”

“So I notice,” said Kitty absently, gazing at him. How, in what manner, was she gazing at him?

“Come around to the other side so I can see you.”

Instead, Kitty got in the front seat and turned around to face him. The sun shone on the tiny beads of sweat on the down of her upper lip. She smelled of “prespiration,” which is the name we used to give lady sweat, which is a good name for it because it smells like prespiration, which smells more Presbyterian than perspiration. He smiled: I'm beginning to think like Allie.

“Who are you going to play golf with? Walter?”

“I already played eighteen holes, and not with Walter.” Her strong brown arm hugged the leather seat. The hand swung free just above his belt buckle.

Then it was afternoon. The sun had not cleared the cart shed rising; it had cleared the Mercedes roof setting.

It was odd seeing Allie in her, not just the upper lip drawn short by its double tendon but the quick economical stooping movements, the bowing of neck which caused the vertebra to surface in the smooth flesh, the risible watchfulness of the eyes searching his face. Yet somehow the liveliness which in Allie was graceful and shy became in Kitty rowdy and jostling. The hand in its pendulum arc touched his belt. The same become opposites in mother and daughter yet still remain the same. Chromosomes cast inverted but recognizable shadows of themselves

“How do you feel, Will?”

“Fine. I slept all day.”

“Lewis is here. Do you want to see him?”

“Lewis Peckham?”

She nodded. He wondered if when the fingers touched him it would leave a welt like a pendulum. “He was in the foursome.”

“With Walter and—?”

“Not with Walter. Walter is long gone.”

“Gone?”

“I mean he's gone. Took off. All we have in common now is this business with Allie.”

“I see. How did you find me?”

“That's my car. I parked next to you this morning.”

“You mean you saw me this morning?”

“Yes.”

He pondered the fact that Kitty had seen him, recognized him, and played eighteen holes of golf.

“Why didn't you wake me up?”

“You were sleeping very soundly and dreaming. Your lips and eyes were moving.”

“I see.”

“I did call your daughter Leslie, though. She's been terribly concerned about you.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Only that you'd be coming home when you woke up. Will you?”

“Yes. You mean she's back from her honeymoon?”

“She doesn't believe in honeymoons. She and Jason stayed here. She's discovered backwoods churches where people speak in tongues. She and Jack Curl have gotten very close.”

“Jack Curl?”

“Yes. It seems they have great plans for the Peabody Foundation.” She looked at him.

“There is no Peabody Foundation—yet.”

“Well, they are planning one.”

“I see.”

“Are you sure you feel well?”

“Yes.”

“We missed you at the wedding.”

“Wedding. Oh yes.”

“Same old Will. Same old Huck Finn lighting out for the territory. You know we've always been two of a kind.”

“We have? How?”

“Both of us can only stand the rat race for so long. Then bye-bye, folks.”

“Was Leslie's wedding all right?”

“Sure. Leslie read from the Bible and Jason read from
The Prophet.
It was very casual. Nobody blamed you for ducking out. Leslie and Jason said they would do the same in your place. In fact, both of them think you're like them. Unstructured.”

“I am?”

“Leslie understands you better than you think, Will.”

“She does?”

“Please try to understand her.”

“Okay.”

“Poor Will.” She clucked and shook her head.

“Why poor Will?”

“What are you going to do now, Will?”

“Go home. I want to see Leslie.”

“She's not there.”

“Where is she?”

“She and Jason have moved into a community down in the cove.”

“A community?”

“A love-and-faith community. That's what she and Jack want to use the Peabody Foundation for, to found such communities around the world, communities for all ages. Maybe the kids know something we don't know, Will.”

“Yes.”

“Anyhow, she's closed the house, but she knows you are coming there.”

“I see.”

Kitty's hand came to rest on his thigh. His thigh swelled. “Now listen, Will. This is important.”

“Okay.”

“I think I know where Allie is.”

“Allie.”

“Oh, Will, I need your help, but just look at you. You're a mess!” Suddenly leaning over, she took hold of a handful of his flank and gave him a great friendly tweak. “Listen, Will, I need to talk to you.” But even as she said this, her mind seemed to wander. Her eyes went away. “You see that car.”

“What car?”

“My car. Right there. What does it remind you of?”

He looked at the car. It was a black Continental. “I don't know.”

“Don't you remember Daddy's Lincoln?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the last time?”

“The last time?”

“After you came back from Santa Fe. Before you took off for good?”

“Ah—”

“When we parked behind the golf course like this?”

“Ah—”

“Ho ho ho you remember all right. Now, Will, listen to me.”

“All right.”

“We need to talk. About Allie, for one thing. I need to see you. Go home. Get cleaned up. Shave. My God, where have you been, laying in some gutter? Tomcattin'?” She gave him a poke. “All this time you could have been at Dun Romin' with me taking care of you. After you get settled, come over to my villa. We need to talk about Allie. I'm right over there in number six, Dun Romin'—don't you like that?”

“Very well, but if it's about Allison, I'll need to talk to Walter too.”

“Honey, I done told you. Friend Walter has split.”

“Split.”

“Checked out. Long gone. Headed for the islands, or rather the island. Come to Dun Romin' and I'll tell you all about it.” She hooked three fingers inside his belt and gave him a tug.

“I see.” He mused: Did Kitty's special boldness come from a special sadness? Or do women grow more lustful as they grow older? “You and Walter are separated?”

“I told you things have been popping around here!” Now swinging around merrily, she knelt as if she were in a pew, arms on the back of the seat. Was she merry or sad? “No, seriously. It's been in the cards for years. It's not that Walter has this thing for his little receptionists—the older he gets, the younger they get—I couldn't care less. What it is is there's nothing between us. Nothing. Maybe there never was. So we've split. And we've agreed. He gets the Georgia island. I get the mountain here.”

“Don't they belong to Allie?” He was watching her eyes, which were rounded and merry but also going away.

“Did I tell you I think I found out where Allie is?”

“No.”

“She's here!”

“Here?”

“Not a mile from this spot. Lewis told me without knowing he was telling me. He thinks the world of you, thinks you're the solidest citizen around. I didn't tell him otherwise, that you're the original flake and we're two of a kind, the original misfits. Oh, Will, you're the raunchiest loveliest mess I ever saw, let's get in the Lincoln—no, I'm kidding. Lewis just happened to mention that a girl's been living out at the old Kemp place, a shy blond little woods creature. She called it her place. Who else could it be? All he had to say was that she comes to town once a week, goes to the A & P, buys oatmeal, talks funny, says no more than three words, and I knew. It's Allie. I'm going to see her now. Lewis drew me a map. Want to come? No, you go home.”

“What do you and Walter want to do with Allie?”

“Just me. Walter has copped out. He's agreeable to anything. All he can think about are what he calls his Ayrabs. He and his Ayrabs, as he calls them, are going to turn the island into a 144-hole golf course with an airport big enough to take 727s from Kuwait.”

“Very well. What do you want to do with Allie?”

“Allie.” For the first time the merry Polly Bergen wrinkles at the corners of her eyes ironed out, showing white. Her eyes went fond and far away. “Allie Allie Allie. What to do with Allie?” Her eyes came back. “Let's face it, Will.”

“Okay.”

“Alistair's been telling me this for years but I couldn't or wouldn't believe him.”

“Alistair?”

“Dr. Duk.”

“What's he been telling you?”

“Will,” said Kitty and in her voice he recognized the sweet timbre, the old authentic Alabama thrill of bad news. “Will, Allie can't make it. Allie is not going to make it, Will. She can't live in this world. No way.”

“Me neither.”

“What?” said Kitty dreamily.

“Nothing. How do you know she can't make it?” On the contrary, he thought. She may be the only one who can make it.

“Because Alistair told me. And because I know her and I know what happens when she tries. Do I ever know.”

“What happens when she tries?”

“At first she's bright as can be. Too bright. Everything is Christmas morning. And that's the trouble. She can only live if every day is Christmas morning. But she doesn't know how to live from one Christmas to the next.”

“What happens when she tries?”

“She can't cope.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean that she literally does not know how to live. She can't talk, she can't sleep, she can't work. So she crawls into a hole and pulls it in after her. Twice I've saved her from starvation. I can't take that responsibility any more.”

“What do you want to do with her?”

“What is best for her. The best-structured environment money can buy, and all the freedom she can handle.”

“You mean you want to commit her.”

“I've talked it over again with Alistair. She can have her own cottage. She can do anything that you or I can do. The only difference is that I intend to make sure she will not injure herself. She will be around people who understand her and with whom she can talk or not talk as she chooses. She will have everything you and I have—books, music, art, companionship, you name it. And you and I will be here if she needs us.”

He must have fallen silent for some time because the next thing he knew she was poking him in her old style.

“What?” he said with a start.

“Wake up. I was talking about Allie.”

“I know.”

“Tell me something, Will.”

“Okay.”

“Does Allie's life make sense to you?”

“Well I don't—” he began.

“It's like Ludean said. Ludean, Grace's wonderful old Nigra cook. You know what she told me? She said: That chile don't belong in this world, Miss Kitty.”

He was silent. He was thinking about firelight on Allie's face and arms and breasts as she knelt to feed logs into the iron stove.