One More River (20 page)

To his surprise, the boss turned into one of the latter, driving through a rusted wrought-iron gate coming off hinges barely attached to a brick wall riddled with chips and holes. The loblolly pine and red maple at its entryway dipped forward so low from a lack of proper care and abandonment to the wind that their branches brushed the cab of the truck and battered poor Bald Horace about the head. The only element of the place that looked kept up was the road. Planks of fresh wood were laid out over the widest ruts where rainwater flowed through deep trenches as if from underground springs.

Up to this point, the boss was taciturn. A couple of times, Bernard tried to engage him in conversation, indicating that he’d grown up thereabouts, a fact he felt might help warm the man up. The boss replied he was from King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, himself, where it didn’t goddamn rain like this ever, though they got plenty of goddamn snow in the winter months. That prompted Bernard to launch into a story about the rare qualities of mountain snow, a story told him by a Frenchman from Switzerland he’d met in a railcar. He wasn’t half through when he noticed the boss wasn’t paying attention. The man didn’t care at all what he said no matter how entertaining the tale. Bernard shut up.

There wasn’t another word between them until they turned off the entry road into a clearing of squared-up cultivated bushes and shrubs swimming in mud. This here’s what the big man calls his puzzle garden, the boss said, but it ain’t goin’ too good. They rode a short distance more, made another turn. And there it was.

The big house. Bernard had never seen such a house and by this time, he had traveled some between the pleasure boat and his wanderings with Bald Horace. The house was raised high up off the ground on a brick foundation and had two staircases, one from the north corner and one from the south, meeting up in the middle of a wide veranda that went all the way around to the back. It stood three stories and had balconies from every window, balconies of wrought iron twisted into fanciful shapes that maybe were flowers, maybe animals, he couldn’t tell which. It had columns, of course, every plantation house needed columns, and these were thick, fluted, and well spaced. Everything was painted a shining white except the wide oak planks of the veranda floor and the jalousie shutters, which were a dark green. The whole structure looked as if it stretched back all the way to Illinois. Maybe that was it, Bernard thought. Maybe it was the size of the thing that took his breath away. He was taken by the way light radiated from within, light so abundant, so bright, it made him wonder where the dynamo was, how it could be big enough to generate all that light and still hide itself from the eye. There were three chandeliers wired up on the veranda, and these burned brightly, too, so that the house glowed in the rain against the gray sky like a holy place or a magical one.

The boss from King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, left the truck and mounted the stairs on the south side. As he did, the front door with its brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head opened, and a man stepped out in the company of two liveried Negroes. The boss removed his rain hat and stood holding it at his waist. He presented the bundle of letters they’d retrieved in town to the gent, who barely glanced at them and handed them off to one of the Negroes. Obviously, this was the big man. He was dressed in jodhpurs and riding boots paired with a black leather jacket and a turtleneck sweater of the same camel color as his britches. Everything about him was crisp and clean. There was no possibility he had gone riding in a downpour in such an outfit, and it was unlikely he intended to. He was a dramatic type, Bernard assessed, dressing for effect rather than use. His theory was borne out by the man’s posture. He stood languidly with a crop in one hand that he beat lightly against the palm of the other as if marking the time of a waltz. His features were undeniably handsome. He had a straight nose, wide-set eyes, chiseled jaw, well-shaped lips coming to a bow at the center. His thick black hair was pomaded to curl over one side of his brow in a studied, graceful dip. In fact, he was so remarkably good-looking and well turned out that Bernard was reminded of an actor on a showboat playing master in some antebellum play. He half-expected an actress in banana curls and hoop skirt to step out on the veranda after him. He rolled down the truck window to achieve a clearer look.

The dock boss smiled at the big man and stretched out an arm, gesturing toward the truck. The big man turned his head to look directly in Bernard’s direction, his expression haughty but impassive. Bernard would remember that moment the rest of his life. Their eyes met and a shiver went through him, though not the cold kind. It was a hot, volcanic rush of blood. The big man pointed at him with his crop and circled it in the air, meaning get out of that truck, boy, get up here, and let me look at you.

Bernard’s heart pounded, his ears throbbed. He got out of the truck then helped Bald Horace out of its bed as a stalling tactic. He needed time to calm himself. The two friends jogged double-time through the mud and up the steps to the veranda. Bernard felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. Every sound was magnified from the squish of their shoes in the mud to the clap, clap, clap they made hitting the stairs. He could hear every drop of rain hit the ground. He could hear Bald Horace breathe.

They stood behind the King of Prussia man with their heads down. The big man said, I hear you got an unusual name. Let me hear you tell it.

Somewhere in his pounding heart, Bernard knew who the big man was. He couldn’t say why. His scalp didn’t creep. But he was as certain of the other’s identity as he was of his own and so he told his name straight out, without the bowing and mimicry, told it with his eyes squinting against the light of the chandelier under which the other Bernard Levy, his name-twin, stood. Then he made a study of the man before him, a closer study than he’d made from the truck, one which took the measure of the other’s character, or at least as much as he could discern. He saw the mark of cruelty in the set of the big man’s jaw, the proud heart behind the steel gray eyes, the sensualist in the glossy lips, greed in the soft belly and thighs. He was handsome, alright, but his beauty had a spiteful core that frightened rather than seduced, at least that was the conclusion Bernard came to on that wet afternoon on the veranda of Ghost Tree Plantation as he obediently uttered his name.

Bernard Levy, sir, he said. The other did not laugh but snorted and smirked and proceeded to ignore him as if he were an object rather than a human being.

Quite a find you’ve made, Carter, the big man said to the boss. My wife will say you’ve found the mirror of my soul. Let’s keep him around for good luck. If the angel of death comes looking for me, it’s this ugly pup we’ll throw to the old fellow, eh? Now, who’s this blackie behind him?

A man named . . . ah . . . dang, I forget.

Bald Horace, Bald Horace offered helpfully.

Bald Horace, yes, thank you. He’s t’other’s man.

The two exchanged a look of unveiled mockery. His man? Bernard Levy the handsome repeated. His man. Well, then I guess he can stay, too. Looks strong enough. Put them up in the barn or the barracks, wherever there’s room, and we’ll assign them jobs after supper. Come back up the house after. I want to talk to you.

Carter took Bernard and Bald Horace over to the barn where a horse stall stood empty. He gave them dry blankets.

We’ll find you better beds oncet we know if you’ll be workin’ on the land or on the house. The house workers’re mostly eye-talian. We’re up to the finish work now. They’re layin’ tile and carvin’ gewgaws into the wood. My, but they’re good at that. They’re good at brick layin’, too. We got ’em in here when we laid the foundation, and they just stayed. Now, the land workers, well, they’d be mostly niggers. You’re a lucky boy, he said to Bald Horace, to land here. Plenty of your people goin’ beggin’ since the rains got bad. Lookie over there next to that first barrack, that’s the canteen. Supper’s in another hour. You go on over there and eat your fill, tell ’em Carter sent you if anyone asks. After supper, I’ll come back here and let you know what the big man’s decided to do with you. We pay by the job here, so I can’t tell you your wages ’til I know what you’re doin’. Payday’s every other Saturday. Just so you know.

They smiled and shuffled as they were expected to do but after Carter left, Bald Horace whistled and hugged Bernard and clapped him on the back.

Sweet Jesus, look at this. A dry spot to lay our heads, hot food, and steady work. How long’s it been, Bernard?

I couldn’t say.

Bald Horace walked up and down the barn aisle, marveling at the construction of the place. The aisle was brick, the walls cement, the stalls of the sturdiest wood with iron bars on hinges for windows. The horses in their stalls were quiet and in good flesh. The tack room was immaculate. There was another whole room devoted to carriages, some vehicles made for stylish travel, and others for hauling whatever needed it. The trappings were lush, of the best leather and shining brass.

Must be a dozen men workin’ in here to keep her up like this. Where are they all now, I wonder? Takin’ a nap? Bald Horace giggled at his own joke. My, oh my, I do believe we landed in the lap of paradise.

Bernard was not so sure. Everything looked fine around him, he could agree to that, but he sensed there was something else going on, something on the rain-soaked horizon, a thing all the hot food, good work, and dry beds in the world would not be worth. He studied his friend, his beloved’s brother, a man who had suffered as much as he had in the last year, who carried around a black skin in an unfriendly world the same way he carried homeliness. Bald Horace had wrapped himself up in his blanket and lay down to test the comfort of the stall floor, which was covered in wood shavings five inches deep. His eyes were shut. He was smiling, and a heartbeat later he was snoring. Bernard thought, Bald Horace is happy. He sighed, weighing that happiness against his own anxiety.

A breeze came up and a scent wafted through the barn like perfume. The aroma of rice came from the canteen where supper cooked. Bernard wrinkled his nub of a nose and inhaled the scent more deeply. Yes, rice and beans, for sure, maybe a bit of collard and cracklin’ throughout. Oh Lord, maybe even giblets. His mouth watered as if dirty rice and beans were the feast of kings. Alright, he thought, alright. We’ll stay here awhile. We’ll put a little meat on our bones and fatten up our purse.

He lay down opposite Bald Horace and tried to catch some sleep before supper and whatever work detail might follow, but the unease he’d felt stayed with him and he remained awake.

W
HEN
M
ICKEY
M
OE OPENED THE
door to the house next to the junkyard, Laura Anne just about jumped out of her skin and the car both. She had her hand on the door handle ready to swing it open when J. Henry said, Ho, now, miss, be careful. We’re still movin’.

It took centuries for the car to roll to a stop. She feared she’d faint from hyperventilation. And then she was in her lover’s arms. He held her close. She let out a little cry of relief. Oh baby, he said. It’s alright. You’re here now. He kissed her like there was no one else there. Then he moved her aside. She staggered a couple steps, turned around to see what it was distracted him. Mickey Moe had his hands up against the car’s rear window, which he stared into drop-jawed.

Who is that? he said, gesturing toward the man collapsed over the seat. He nodded at her driver. I know you must be J. Henry, and how do you do. But who’s that?

They told him what they knew, which wasn’t much. Mickey Moe opened the car’s door and leaning in, tried to rouse the man, who groaned once or twice but remained immobile with his eyes shut. With considerable effort, he and J. Henry managed to get the dead weight of him into the house.

The mechanic’s home was a mean place with scavenged furniture rigged to stand up straight with odd scraps of unrelated furniture lashed on with duct tape. There was an icebox in one corner next to a sink and a kitchen table with a double-burner hot plate set on top. Mickey Moe handed his girl a dish towel and told her to fill it with ice.

Let’s see if we can’t bring him to.

J. Henry put the wrapped up ice on the back of the man’s neck. He moaned and fluttered his eyes open then closed them again while he continued moaning. Mickey Moe dragged a tin tub into the middle of the room from a place outside, then handed J. Henry a couple of buckets.

There’s a pump out there. If you could please fill up the tub, my gal here’ll heat up a pot or two of water. When everything’s nice and lukewarm, we can put him in it without sending him into shock. Gettin’ him cleaned up and conscious seems to be the first order of business. Don’t you agree, darlin’?

Laura Anne’s chest went warm with pride. How could Mama and Daddy not approve of my man? she thought. He’s so good in a crisis. He takes charge as natural as a five-star general. She found two big pots behind a chintz-curtained cupboard. She put them up to heat. Once she had the pots going, J. Henry worked at filling up the tub while Laura Anne helped Mickey Moe undress the stranger without shame at seeing him naked or revulsion at the wounds and filth that covered him. It took all three of them to lift him into the tub. His eyes opened for good then. They were wide and fearful. At first, he struggled against immersion, splashing water all around. When he realized they were trying to help him, he quieted. He’d try to speak, and then he’d cry. Speak and cry. Speak and cry. It took time and patience to soothe him enough to stop his blubbering. The owner of the shack, Billy Dankins, came home from the garage. The sight of Billy, a skinny white man in overalls smeared with axle grease, set him off again. Billy took in the strange goings-on in his living room with a twist of his head and a perplexed pout.

Good evenin’, J. Henry, he said. How’s your mama doin’?

Good even’, Mr. Dankins. I don’t know about Mama. I’ve not seen her yet.

Well, then you’d best go on or you’ll be leavin’ agin without the time to treat her right. Whatever on God’s green earth is goin’ on in my own livin’ room, I can take care of.