Original Sins (71 page)

“But I do, Mama. With every chore, I think about how well this world was set up. And what a mess the capitalists are making of it.”

“Who're they?” asked his mother.

“I think we was meant to work to live, not live to work,” continued Raymond.

“If you don't mind being common,” replied his mother.

“You're living in a dream, son,” insisted his father. “This ain't real. It's a game.”

“It's more real what you do down there in the valley? Walking around watching people work, and sometimes going in and kissing Mackay's ass?”

Mr. Tatro gripped the arms of his chair. Mrs. Tatro gasped, “Why, Raymond Tatro Junior!”

“If this is a dream, I don't never want to wake up.”

“It ain't in the nature of a dream to last a lifetime. So, buddy, you better get yourself ready for one rude awakening.”

Winter came and with it rains that swelled the creek to overflowing. The road down the cove became a bog, the woods dripped incessantly. Raymond didn't go out much except to tend the animals.

Ben came by on weekends and in the evening after basketball practice. They took the beeswax they'd separated from the honey that fall, melted it in a deep pot on the stove, and dipped wicks time after time to make candles, which were a creamy golden color and smelled of honey. They got out the bags of wool. Searching through barns and attics and sheds up and down the cove, they assembled their own hand-operated yarn factory. In Tatro Cove nothing ever got thrown away—that included old refrigerators and automobile carcasses, but also looms and spinning wheels. They washed the wool, hand-carded it, oiled it, drew it out into rovings, and then spun it into yarn on a wheel pedaled by foot. They figured out how to make dyes from onion skins and leaves and barks.

Verbena almost collapsed when they asked her to teach them to knit. She'd forgotten how, but Grandma Tatro showed them. They also set up an old loom from Verbena's barn and began weaving a coverlet.

Raymond explained to Ben how their forebears had sold them out for an illusion of security. Now, in the mill and the mines, they didn't own the huge machines, the cloth or coal. All they owned was their labor, which they'd sold to management for cash with which to buy food and shelter. Management had purchased them, the way plantation owners used to purchase slaves. Ben and he, though, were resuscitating the family craft. They owned their equipment, their labor, and the end product, which they could either use or sell. They'd destroyed the worker-capitalist relationship at its source.

Ben blushed to the roots of his blonde hair. “Are you some kind of Communist or something, Junior?”

Raymond smiled. “Capitalism, Communism. Both concerned with the production and distribution of junk. Cor One got along with as little junk as possible—what could be produced by his own hands.”

“What are you then—a Democrat or something?”

“I'm a Tatro, Ben. Of Tatro Cove. And so are you.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

Raymond felt he was answering this question through illustration, not through abstract theoretical discussion, which was as foreign to Tatro Cove as Big Bird and M.G.'s white patent leather loafers.

Late one night he sat by the stove knitting and watching Johnny Carson, picturing himself being interviewed by Johnny. You'd want to simplify your terminology, intersperse it with little jokes, appear on this show rather than one some news analysis program on public broadcasting, so that you could really bring your message to the people….

There was a knock on the door. Raymond started, poking himself with one of his needles. People hardly ever came down to the end of the cove, never that late, and not through that sea of mud called a road. He jumped up, turned off the TV, and slid it under the bed.

He opened the door on a tall, well-built man with a full red beard and thinning hair, who he figured was the guy from Philadelphia Ben had been telling him about. Ben was always enthusiastic about new people. But Raymond had really not been looking forward to this. Dred Allen, he said his name was. Raymond recognized it immediately. He'd done political work with Justin and Morris and those guys. Raymond decided not to mention mutual acquaintances. That was all behind him now. He was ashamed of his days as a missionary for Yankee imperialism.

“Just thought I'd stop by, introduce myself.”

“Come in.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Raymond laughed. “Hell, no. What's there to interrupt?”

“Yeah, this place is a drag, all right.” He sat down and pulled out some cigarette papers. “You mind if I, like, smoke?”

“Not if you don't mind if I knit.”

“Your cousin Ben said we should check each other out. That we, like, have a lot in common.”

“Do we?”

“Well, he said you, like, lived in New York?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing down here, man?”

“My family came from here. I grew up in the valley and decided to come back.”

“Why?”

“I like it. It's quiet.” This was probably the last person he'd describe his mission to. He'd learned you had to be sly around unbelievers.

“Jesus, you can say that again.”

“Why are you here?”

“My old lady and me, we were organizing in Philly. She got offered this job to, like, set up this pre-school thing for the county Human Resources Agency.”

“How bout you?”

“Me? Oh, I'm playing free-lance provocateur.”

This was the fanciest name Raymond had heard yet for unemployment. “Where you living at?”

“We rented a house two hollows down.”

“So how's it going?” Raymond had dropped a stitch and had to unravel a couple of rows.

Dred drew deeply on his joint. “Shit, man, I can't communicate with these cats, know what I mean?”

Raymond looked at him. He knew what it was like to be new kid on the block. Besides, Hospitality was part of the Tatro code. “Well, they're pretty stand-offish until they get to know you.”

“Stand-offish? Man, I'd be glad if they were! I'm just afraid I'm going to
get
punched out, know what I mean?”

“Oh well, if you're at that point, you're fine. What you got to watch out for is silence, when they won't even bother to disagree with you.”

“I was jogging up my road one day past this shack with a bunch of wrecked cars in the yard. This old guy was sitting on his porch. I ran up and introduced myself. Then I said maybe I could get someone to come haul away the cars. He said, ‘What's wrong with them where they is?'” He laughed. “But I guess you got to figure that anybody with any get-up-and-go has already got up and gone!” He laughed. Raymond gazed at him, unamused.

Dred left behind an invitation for Ben and Raymond for supper the next week. “He's an outasight kid, your cousin. Can you help me persuade him to get the hell out of Tatro Cove?”

“Why?”

“Well, I mean, like, hell, man, this is one bright kid. And what's there for him in this disaster area. Know what I mean?”

“What's there for him out there?”

Their eyes met.

Raymond was just finishing kneading some dough the next night when Ben arrived, his hair slicked down from his shower after ball practice, and mud from the road almost to his knees. He dropped into a chair by the stove.

“Dred says he came by.”

“Yeah.”

“Isn't he neat, Junior?”

“Yes.” He'd decided the best way to handle Ben's enthusiasm was to humor it. Dred was so awful that even Ben couldn't fail to perceive it in time. Patience. Like the patience required to knead dough, let it rise. He shaped the dough into loaves and slipped them into buttered pans.

He sat down and handed Ben a dulcimer they'd found while ransacking Verbena's barn. Raymond picked up Grandpa Tatro's banjo. They strummed and plucked for a while, trying to figure out how to play the damn things together.

“Let's face it,” Ben suggested. “We're awful.”

“At least we're not sitting staring at TV.”

“What you got against TV? I bet you'd like The Waltons,' Junior.”

Raymond realized he hadn't explained the difference between popular culture and mass culture. He'd reviewed his methods carefully and had decided that verbal explanation had to accompany, and provide a framework for, practical illustration: “The ballads Tatros used to sing until the arrival of the radio—they came from Scotland and England. Something would happen—a murder or something. Someone would write a song about it. Other people would forget the words or tune and add new ones. It'd be passed on from generation to generation, getting polished like a stone in a creek. It expressed the common experience of the entire community.”

“How do you know what used to go on up here, Junior?”

Raymond paused with his mouth open, trying to decide if this question was intended to be as impertinent as it sounded. Ben sometimes just didn't seem to grasp his role as disciple. Raymond decided it was a genuine question, but that it deserved to be ignored, so Ben would learn to absorb things at the pace at which Raymond fed them to him. “You take television. Its messages are passed down from a few capitalists in glass office buildings in New York City. The ads make viewers want to buy a lot of useless junk. And the way different groups are presented or not presented in programs reinforces the pecking order that keeps those fuckers on top.”

“What about ‘Hawaii Five-O'? That's a real good show.”

Raymond sighed, then reminded himself about rising dough.

“You think I shouldn't watch TV anymore, Junior?”

“Shit, how the hell should I know?”

Sitting in silence as rain splattered against the windows, Raymond felt discouraged. It was a shock to realize how little Ben understood. Did the kid have to go out and get as fucked over as Raymond had been? What was the point of missing “The Price Is Right” if Raymond wasn't getting his point across?

“There's something I been wanting to tell you.” Ben blushed.

Raymond looked up.

“We finally done it, Cheryl and me. We loved it. Been doing it all the time.”

“I thought you hadn't been around much lately.” Raymond felt a pang of jealousy. It wasn't a sensation he approved of, implying ownership of another person. But maybe it was inevitable in a society that treated people like things that could be bought and sold. The feeling began to fade as he performed his political analysis on it. All these reflexes from your upbringing lingered on. You had to examine them, then dismiss them.

“I want to bring her down to meet you, Junior. Is that OK?”

“Sure. Bring her by.” He wanted to meet this chick almost as much as he wanted to meet Little Lulu.

Raymond had thought Dred looked like the type who'd serve whole wheat spaghetti, and he did. During supper Dred talked endlessly about starting a food co-op. “We could get staples a lot cheaper. Also items you can't find around here—mung beans and natural peanut butter and stuff. We could like borrow a truck and make runs to Lexington or Knoxville.”

“I don't think you'll find much demand here for mung beans,” Raymond said.

“Hostess cupcakes and Nehis maybe.” Ben grinned.

“Shit, man, I can't get anyone interested in anything around this hell-hole.”

Dred's son Humus specialized in spontaneity. At that moment he stood up on his chair and lisped “Solidarity Forever,” thrusting his clenched fist into the air.

Ben, having known only mealtimes at which women stood behind the men, and children gazed at their plates and said nothing unless questioned, looked stunned. Dred and his old lady Cindy and Raymond, however, listened and smiled at Humus and applauded when he finished.

Dred resumed, “I tried to get the JayCees to buy that baseball field from Cletus Jones. Everyone said, ‘Aw shucks, Cletus, he lets us use it when we want to.'”

“He does,” Ben confirmed.

“But it's under water all winter.”

“But nobody plays softball in winter,” Raymond explained.

“Fuck it, man. I mean, like, I never saw such a lazy, backward, uncooperative bunch of people in my life. Know what I mean?”

Raymond glanced at Ben. But he appeared to accept every word the bastard uttered. “Maybe we like things the way they are,” Raymond suggested. “When you call someone lazy, you might just be defining yourself as puritanically hyperactive.” Cindy and Dred did strike him as frenetic, constantly jumping up to fetch food, tend the fire, or pace the floor for emphasis. He remembered these people liked nothing better than a good argument, and realized he was about to be lured into their stockade.

“No, man, it's not contentment. It's resignation. You can read it in the faces.”

“That's really true,” insisted Cindy. “I can find only four mothers who're willing to give their children a preschool experience.”

“Maybe they like having them around.”

“Yes, but think of the poor child. Plopped in first grade with no preparation.”

“What about the poor child who gets plopped in a preschool experience with no preparation?”

“I want to talk now!” announced Humus.

“Shut up,” Dred growled.

Humus picked up a broccoli spear and began beating Dred on his balding head, calling him a “fucking fascist bastard.” Mock hollandaise sauce flew around the room. Ben's eyes got wider.

Ben took it upon himself to persuade his cousins to enroll their children in Cindy's preschool experience.

“What'd they say?” Raymond asked. This infatuation of Ben's was bound to burn itself out. And when it did, Raymond would be waiting patiently to continue Ben's instruction.

“Muriel said she'd have to give Clem up soon enough as it was, and she wanted him with her as long as she could keep him. And Annie said little children belonged at home with their mothers. And Bertha said Cindy and Dred wasn't nothing but Communists, trying to break up the American family.”