A Southern Place (13 page)

Living alone for the first time in her life, the weekends seemed to last forever. The sounds of arguing or sex on the other side of an apartment wall made her feel uncomfortable, like she was purposely trying to fulfill her own lackluster life by spying and eavesdropping on a more interesting one. Television was all reruns, and the library closed before her workdays ended. There was nowhere to escape in the tiny apartment and nowhere to go for a change of scenery. Then she remembered her job at the Sundown.

Unlike the factory, working at the bar was like working independently. The owner might stop in for a few minutes or be there for the whole night, but more as a customer than a boss. She knew what to do and she did it, never feeling like she was being evaluated under scrutiny. The work varied from extremely busy nights, which flew by, and slow ones, which seemed to last longer but were like getting paid to stand around and do nothing. No two nights were exactly the same, an inspiration never afforded by factory work. Her hourly pay was a little over minimum wage, with tips beyond that. So on the Friday after Cal’s departure, Delores drove to the Sundown immediately after work.

Mr. Hall was behind the bar, sitting on a crooked stool and playing a game of solitaire beside the cash register. Breaking into a grin when he saw her in the doorway, he came out from his perch and hugged her in a fatherly embrace, something he’d never done before.

“Long time, no see,” he said. “I heard your brother’s off to the government place, learning a trade. You doing okay by yourself?”

“About to climb the walls. You needing any weekend help?” she asked, her eyes scanning the room and its lone customer, parked in a corner with a dog-eared
Albany Herald.

Mr. Hall let his gaze follow hers, then shook his head and laughed.

“Don’t let it fool you, you know how deceiving Friday nights can be. Give ’em an hour or two to change clothes and grab a bite to eat. It’ll be standing room only by eight.” He picked up an empty beer bottle from his customer’s table and headed back toward the bar.

“Don’t be too sure,” said the voice behind the newspaper, laying it on the table and revealing a pale, thin, middle-aged face with long, black sideburns and a receding hairline. “Bruce” was embroidered in red on the pocket of his khaki shirt.

Mr. Hall stopped and turned back. “You got inside information?”

Bruce smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “All you can eat special at Big Jack’s Catfish tonight. ’Til closing.”

Mr. Hall considered, then said, “They’ll eat and leave. Strongest drink Jack serves is iced tea.” He tossed the bottle into the trash and took a fresh beer from the cooler. He winked at Delores, nodding toward Bruce. Delivering the fresh drink, Mr. Hall said, “Well, Big Bruce, how come
you’re
not over at Big Jack’s tonight?”

Bruce wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “I like to fish, but I don’t much like to eat fish. And I won’t never eat no catfish.”

Mr. Hall dropped his jaw in mock amazement. “What kind of Southerner are you, Bruce? And what kind of Dumas County boy won’t eat a good mess o’ catfish?” He looked to Delores. “Miss Mullinax, have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Don’t guess I have, though Southerners’ appetites can differ sometimes. My brother wouldn’t ever eat chitterlings, and I’d rather starve than have to even smell turnip greens. But I love some good fried catfish,” Delores said.

“What on earth would a fellow have against catfish, Bruce? I just can’t imagine,” Mr. Hall said.

Bruce picked up his newspaper, but didn’t open it until he’d answered the question. “First of all,” he said, “they’re nasty. Those bony fins are sharp as knives, can go straight through your hand if you don’t watch out. And they’re ugly as sin—those ol’ wiry whiskers—got a face like Castro, or that, what’s his name? Ugly old guy—Ernest Borgnine.”

Delores stifled a giggle.

“So they’re ugly. So what?” asked Mr. Hall. “I’ve seen some cows and pigs and chickens, for that matter, that I wouldn’t wanna marry, but they taste just fine looking at me from a plate. What’s the real story, Bruce?”

Bruce opened his paper, straightened it with a firm snap of a shake, then pulled it downward, just below his eyes. “I don’t eat no catfish,” Bruce said in a more serious tone. “Because they’re bottom feeders. And I don’t eat shit.”

With that he disappeared back behind his reading material, picking up his beer for a draw, obviously finished with his end of the conversation.

“Go home and grab a bite,” Mr. Hall said to Delores. “Be back here by seven-thirty if you can. I’ll stick around a while, let you get the feel of the place again. Think you could close up for me tomorrow night? I hadn’t been out to Sam Erwin’s poker game since before deer season.”

“No problem,” Delores answered. “My brother used to play poker at Sam Erwin’s.”

“Cal’s taken more of Sam’s shirts than the damned dry cleaners. Fine card player, Calvin was,” he said, then correcting his error. “I mean—is,” he added, not looking at her when he spoke. “Go home, take a load off a few minutes. Gonna be a busy night, I hope.”

Delores left the bar missing her brother more than ever.
It’s like they’ve already written him off,
she thought,
like he doesn’t count anymore, like he’s a non-person.
He was missing an arm, not a soul.

She hurried home to a tuna sandwich and a hot shower, then dressed in dark slacks and a pale sweater. Pulling her hair into a neat ponytail, she added a smile’s worth of lipstick and grabbed her purse. Hopping into the shiny new truck, she started the engine and headed for her new-old job.
At least I’m going somewhere
, she thought, and for the first time in months, Delores smiled.

The Sundown was already picking up when she arrived a little after seven. It was fun seeing familiar faces. Smiling as she listened to their stories, Delores mixed drinks and drew beer almost non-stop for the first few hours, not realizing how she was hustling until the crowd thinned around ten-thirty. She grabbed a tray and gathered the empty glasses once they were down to a table of three and two regulars at the bar. Elbow-deep in a sink full of suds, Delores suddenly felt the distinct aura of being watched. Looking up, she saw young Phillip Foster, outlined by light from the jukebox and staring directly at her.

Delores’s stomach knotted up in butterflies when she first saw Phil. That stupid, stupid night last summer, the night she behaved like the poster child for every small town redneck girl who got drunk with a rich pretty-boy and fell for his bullshit,
that
was always the first thing that came to her mind. But in the light of everything that had happened to Cal, her problems seemed pretty trivial, and she was glad no one knew about that night ever existing. Since Phil still acknowledged her but treated her no differently, she wondered what had really
happened then. Did he remember? If he did, why did he pretend it never happened? That seemed a bit cold. But she couldn’t write him off as heartless; he seemed to truly worry about Calvin. Always.

Before the accident, Cal had a strange relationship with the Foster family. On the rare nights that old Mr. Foster stayed at the lodge instead of his family home in Albany, Cal would have dinner with him, coming home late and smelling of cigars and whiskey. And although Cal was friendly with all the farm workers, he seemed to be the only one of them who really got along with Foster’s son Phil.

“Boy’s a spoiled brat,” Delores heard one of them say to her brother. “Thinks he’s too good for everybody but you, Cal. But that’s all right, we got your number, buddy. Smart move, being friendly with the boss’s son.”

Yet Cal never agreed, trying to stick up for Phil without offending the others. “He’s an okay guy,” Cal would say. “He’s a fish out of water, trying to walk on land. We wouldn’t do much better in his world, if we got thrown in and were expected to swim.”

They’d all shake their heads as in disbelief, but Delores believed he’d at least given them something to think about.

After the accident, Phil came by almost every day. Cal had gone over for dinner with him once, like he used to do with old Mr. Foster, but after that he started doing anything he could to avoid Phil. Phil still came over, started bringing things as an excuse—books, comics, magazines, cigars and liquor. If Calvin saw Phil first, there would be no answer to his knock at the door. If Phil managed to catch Cal off guard, he’d accept whatever Phil brought, but give some lame excuse and send him away. And if Dolores
asked anything about Phil, her brother brushed her off completely. Said he was the boss’s son, a decent guy but a rich boy who’d never know them outside the workplace. So she never dared take the subject of Phil Foster any further.

If Delores were there when Phil came, Calvin sent her to the door. Her first experience at turning Phil away had been horrifying; she had not seen him since the forbidden night at the river. However, nothing registered in Phil’s face, not then or any of the other times he stood at her door. After a while, she decided she would forget it as well.

Phil seemed different in the light of day. She remembered how he was never comfortable talking until he’d had a few drinks, and standing on the small porch of their little house, he seemed awkward, even shy.

“Uh, uh, hi, uh—Delores,” he’d say, not like he’d forgotten her name, more like he needed permission to say it. “I—uh—I wondered if Cal—uh, I mean I came by to see him—uh, if he’s all right? I mean, I wanted to see about Cal, if he, uh—if he feels all right,” he stammered, then added, “I brought some books he might like.”

This was not the obnoxious guy in the fancy car, nor was he the playboy that talked about beautiful places she’d never been. This was a frightened boy, wanting to see his friend but ill-prepared to communicate with her in order to make it happen. Delores thought it almost cruel to send him away, though her first allegiance was to her brother.

“Cal’s taking a nap, he hasn’t slept well lately,” she’d often say. “I try to leave him alone when he’s resting peacefully. He wakes up every few hours at night.” At least that was true. Cal’s scream-filled nightmares affected her sleep as well.

“Let him sleep,” he’d always answer. “I—I’ll leave the books.”

“I’ll tell him you came by.” She’d take the books, and Phil would wander away towards the lodge.

Delores bent down into the cooler and retrieved four long-necked Buds. Setting them on a tray, she saw Phil standing in the same spot. Still staring at her, he smiled as their eyes locked.
I wonder which guy he is tonight
, Delores thought, but she couldn’t help smiling back.

At the bar, he ordered his usual Scotch and sat down, staring at the Clydesdale horses, Delores, and the ceiling, intermittently. With his second drink, he began to ask questions about Cal’s recovery. By the third, he seemed genuinely concerned and was strangely planning the rest of Cal’s life, like a father for his son.

“They teach basic skills to use with the hook, but this learning a trade theory is a crock. Cal’s too smart for that, it’s an insult to his intelligence,” Phil said. “Once he learns how to function without embarrassing himself, he needs to go to college.” He said it with no hesitation, like it was common knowledge everyone should already know.

Delores was shocked. “College?” she asked. “What kind of college? He always wanted to go to ABAC, the ag school in Tifton, but that was back when he thought he’d be farming the rest of his life—”

“ABAC’s a good school, but it’s only a two-year institution,” Phil said. “He could start there, then go on to UGA, or UA, or Auburn. And he can farm, in a big way. He should; anybody that loves it like he does would be crazy doing anything else.”

“But his arm—the hook—your dad and that lawyer said people with hooks shouldn’t be—” Delores took her soapy rag and wiped down the space in front of her, using a dry rag to clean off the moisture. Boredom, frustration, worry, or even excitement sent Delores into an unconscious mode of manic cleaning.

“They’re full of shit. I mean, pardon my French, he shouldn’t be doing manual labor in places where he could be easily hurt, but Calvin’s too smart to be used for that kind of stuff anyway.” Phil took a sip of his drink. “There’s plenty of guys that don’t have a brain for much more than hauling or lifting. Then there’s the ones like me, who can be almost smart with their hands, but couldn’t follow directions from a book for love or money. Cal can do it all, and he sees and understands it all, the big picture. Cal needs to learn the serious parts, the stuff you gotta be smart to learn, the chemistry and biology and earth science. And financial stuff.”

“To
farm
? Why would he need all that to farm?” Delores was confused, but interested. She liked to hear the thoughts of someone who really knew her brother, someone who’d say out loud he was much more than just another field hand. And where was this leading? Was he saying that there was still something out there for Calvin, something even better than all he’d ever dreamed?

“Calvin could use all that to do more
than just farm. He could manage a farm, several farms, a plantation. He could steer the direction it took, make it not just a farm but a successful business. Learning economics, he could invest farm earnings. Learning financing, he could use one farm to subsidize another. He could use changes in the economy to work for him, not against him. Combine what Cal knows now with what he could learn in college, and he’d be an unstoppable entrepreneur.”

Delores squeezed her rag as she took in what Phil was saying, elated that someone talked about her brother in the future and not just the past. Without his asking, she refilled his empty glass. “I don’t know about all the big words, but I can just imagine how happy he would be,” she said dreamily, rinsing a glass and setting it the drain basket.

Phil reached over the bar. He laid his hand over Delores’s, still holding the wet rag. He looked directly into her face. “No one I know deserves it more,” he said, his hand lingering for a minute, then giving a small squeeze and releasing.

“But college is expensive,” Delores said. She thought for a moment. “He shouldn’t be building that house,” she said, her voice suddenly on the verge of tears. “We don’t need that house, I knew he signed the papers too soon, why didn’t he—” She stopped, wondering why she was blurting this to a stranger, why she was losing control. She looked the other way, moving random objects behind the bar, trying to look busy while she willed away the burning in her eyes.

“Delores,” Phil said. “Hey—look at me, okay?”

She turned around slowly.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, I mean—you shouldn’t be upset. Everything will be okay,” he promised. “The house is a good thing. Everybody’s gotta have a place to live, right?”

She smiled. “But if he could go to college, he should’ve saved the money for that, not the house. He’ll have to live somewhere if he goes to college, and he can’t pay for both.”

“He can get financial aid. There’s probably all kinds for people with disabilities like his. And he’s smart, he can apply for scholarships, too. And besides, he probably needs a year or two to get used to the prosthesis, get fully independent before he starts anything new. But once he’s ready to roll, I’ll bet there’ll be no stopping him.”

“Are you sure? How do you know all this stuff?”

“I don’t know specifics, but I know it’s possible. I know there are student loans, and other government programs. But before we plan Cal’s life away, shouldn’t we wait and let
him make some of the decisions?”

Delores took a deep breath and felt her stomach unclench. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said. She smiled and reached into the sink for more soapy glasses. He looked at her. She liked the fact that he looked at her, but she also felt the need to do something, hoping it would make it less obvious that she liked it.