Spencer's Mountain (12 page)

“Him and Clay-Boy's teacher come down here tonight to talk to us. It's somethen about Clay-Boy and I want you to listen to what they've got to say and not use any bad words.”

“Doc Campbell,” said Clay. “This woman just can't seem to get it through her head that I'm a natural-born cusser. If I couldn't cuss I couldn't talk.”

“It's a bad habit, that's all it is,” said Olivia with weary disapproval. It was an argument she knew she would never win, yet she felt it her Christian duty to register her position from time to time.

Olivia stood aside and opened the door. Clay led Doctor Campbell down the hall and into the living room. Doctor Campbell entered first and shook hands with Mr. Goodson and Miss Parker. Clay stood at the door for a moment. First he smiled at Miss Parker, then went over, took her hand and nodded silently. Next he went to Mr. Goodson, took his outstretched hand and smiled cordially.

“I'm happy to see you, Clay,” said Mr. Goodson.

Clay smiled again, nodded agreeably and sat down. Clay-Boy looked at his father anxiously. It was unusual that he had not spoken. Usually he entered a room and set everyone in it at ease with a single remark, but now he had not said a word and showed no intention of saying anything.

They all sat in silence. The only sounds in the house came from the kitchen where Olivia was preparing coffee.

The living room was so deathly silent that Clay-Boy became conscious of his breathing and tried holding his breath until his face turned red and he had to breathe again. When he finally began to breathe again he drew in his breath with such gulps that all faces turned on him and he became the center of attention. He turned his face imploringly to his father, but Clay merely sat nodding and smiling politely.

Miss Parker cleared her throat, turned to Clay and said, “It's been a great honor to have your son in my class.”

Clay nodded but spoke not a word.

“I don't believe anyone in the history of the school has made such a brilliant record as Clay-Boy has,” continued Miss Parker bravely.

She waited for some response from Clay. He nodded companionably, but a look of desperation had crept over his face. Clay-Boy had been studying his father closely ever since he came into the room. At first he thought his father was drunk and could not talk, but he discarded that idea. Clay was sitting quite straight and his eyes showed none of the brightness that whiskey sometimes put there. The trouble seemed to Clay-Boy to be that his father looked as if he were going to explode any minute.

“Daddy, are you all right?” Clay-Boy asked.

“Damn it all, I never been better, boy, but your Mama said for me to watch the way I talked and I ain't been able to open my mouth for fear I'd say somethen wrong.

“You see, ma'am,” said Clay to Miss Parker, “ever since I was six years old I been usen cuss words and I reckon I'm too old a rooster to change. Oh, it bothers the old woman in there that I don't talk like somethen out of a pulpit, but I can't help it. I learned to cuss before I learned to walk. Now if that bothers anybody they can march their tail right out of here, but I'm in my own home and I'm goen to talk the only way I know how.”

Miss Parker began to take hope. At least Clay was communicative and she preferred that to the idiotic head-shaking he had been doing when he first came into the room.

“Now that's said and done,” said Clay, “what the hell is goen on here?”

“We came to explore the possibilities that young Clay might go to college,” said Mr. Goodson.

Clay's expansive mood left him. He looked at Clay-Boy sadly. “There ain't the chance of a snowball in hell,” he said.

“Mr. Spencer,” said Miss Parker, who was becoming so accustomed to the swearing that she barely flinched at each new word, “I think if you'll listen to Mr. Goodson a moment you might see that there is a possibility.”

“I'm listenen,” said Clay.

“Miss Parker spoke to me some time ago about young Clay,” said Mr. Goodson. “I wrote to some friends at the University of Richmond and found that they still have a few scholarships available.”

“What kind of ship is that?”

“A scholarship is a fund set aside to help students who might otherwise not attend college at all. My guess would be that young Clay would stand a good chance of winning one.”

“It's some kind of contest. Is that what it is?”

“No, you just have to fill out an application. I've taken the liberty of writing to the University and asked them to send young Clay an application. When it comes he'll fill it out, you and his mother sign it, and return it to the University. A record of his schoolwork will have to be sent to them at the same time and I'm sure Miss Parker will see to that.”

“Yes indeed,” nodded Miss Parker.

“Boy,” said Clay, “if this thing comes through we'll get you down to Richmond somehow. If we can't get you a ride with somebody goen that way we'll find bus fare for you.”

Olivia entered carrying a tray of cups and saucers already filled with coffee.

“Clay,” she said, “it isn't as easy as all that. All a scholarship takes care of is the admission. He's still got to have a place to sleep and somethen to eat.”

“What kind of cheap outfit are they runnen, they don't let the scholarship take care of everythen?”

“Clay, don't you have a brother down in Richmond?” asked Dr. Campbell.

“My brother Virgil's down there. He's worken down there. That's a fact,” answered Clay.

“Maybe he'd take Clay-Boy in with him. That would take care of his room and board,” suggested Dr. Campbell.

“That's asken a lot of a man, even a brother,” said Clay, “To take some little old shirttail boy in and live with him. Virgil's down there chasen women and liven like a dude. Clay-Boy would just be in his way.”

“No, I wouldn't, Daddy,” said Clay-Boy emphatically. “I'd be studying.”

“Boy,” said Clay, “there's another thing. You ain't never been to no big city. You wouldn't know how to get on a streetcar. I know how it is with cities. Virgil took me down there to Richmond one week end and it nearly scared the pie out of me. Cars goen every whichaway and fire trucks janglen up and down the street all hours of the night and so many people you wouldn't believe it if you saw it. You'd get lost down there.”

“He probably will get lost,” said Miss Parker, “but not for long. I know that Clay-Boy is special to you, Mr. Spencer, because he's your son. But he's very special to me. I've been teaching school here in New Dominion for almost thirty years. I've taught my boys and girls to recite Shakespeare, and I've tried to open to them some of the beauty and wisdom they can find in books. I've taught them a little bit about how their government works and hope I've instilled in them some idea of the majesty and wonder of people governing themselves. I've tried to teach them in geography class that this is an enormous world full of opportunities for growth and learning and achievement. Once in a while a child comes along with a hungry look in his eye. He's not content just to memorize facts. He wants to know, he has an inquiring mind, and everything he learns only whets his appetite to learn more. Your son is such a boy, Mr. Spencer. I've taught him everything I know and he's still hungry. If the day comes that I go past the mill and see him stooped over a polishing machine, I think I will give up the teaching profession.”

Miss Parker had made more of a speech than she had intended and she was near tears, but she tried to hide her distress behind her handkerchief.

“I wish I had a bottle,” said Clay. “I'd offer you a drink. But the old woman pours out every bottle she finds so I don't bring it in the house no more.”

“Thank you anyway,” said Miss Parker.

“I'll tell you something,” said Clay. “I never had no education myself, and maybe that's why I appreciate what a education means. I went to school maybe four or five days in my life, just long enough to learn a little writen and how to read a little bit and enough arithmetic so I can tell when the
company's cheaten me on my pay. I admire a man with education and it's always been my heart's craven for my babies to get better than I had.”

“Clay,” said Dr. Campbell. “One of the trustees of the University of Richmond lives up in the part of Nelson County I do. I'd be glad to speak to her on Clay-Boy's behalf if you're willing.”

“I don't see how I could hardly say no, Doc.”

“I take it then,” said Mr. Goodson, “that you have no objection to Clay-Boy's at least applying for the scholarship.”

Clay considered for a while. After a long pause he looked at Clay-Boy and asked, “You want it, boy?”

“Yes sir,” answered Clay.

“Suppose you go down there and fall on your butt?” said Clay.

“I won't… fail, Daddy,” promised Clay-Boy.

“All right then, boy. I'll talk to Virgil about it and see if he'll take you in. Then you go down there and show them city folks somethen they never saw the like of before.”

“I take it then that you will sign young Clay's application?” asked Mr. Goodson.

“I by-God will,” swore Clay.

“Very well,” said Mr. Goodson, “I'll get the application to you right away.”

“Much obliged, Preacher,” said Clay, and then turned to Olivia. “Now that's done, Old Woman, how about putten some supper on the table. I'm hungry.”

***

Later, when they were alone in the kitchen and Clay was having a second cup of coffee, he said, “Livy, write a letter to Virgil and tell him all about this thing and see what he says.”

“He's your brother,” said Olivia, “I think you're the one that ought to write to him.”

“Honey,” said Clay. “It takes me half the night just to sign my name. Now, you get here to the table and write it and I'll tell you what to say.”

Olivia agreed; when she had found one of the children's school tablets and sharpened a pencil with a butcher knife
she sat down and waited for Clay to compose his thoughts. Finally when nothing seemed to come to Clay's mind she said, “I'm waiten.”

“Durned if I can think of how to start out.”

“Most letters start with Dear whoever it is you're writen to,” suggested Olivia.

“All right, then. Put down, ‘Dear Brother Virgil.'”

Olivia did as she was instructed. When she was finished writing, she looked up for further dictation.

“Dear Brother Virgil,” said Clay, “Hope this finds you in the pink of health and getten plenty to eat.”

Olivia wrote hastily as Clay warmed to what he was doing. “We are just fine and dandy here. The trout fishen is goen to start soon and I hope to hell you will be here for it.”

“I can't say that,” said Olivia.

“What?”

“Say ‘hell'.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's going through the mails of the United States Government. They'll arrest you for sayen a thing like that in the mail.”

“How they goen to know if I write ‘hell' and send it through the mail?”

“They're liable to open it,” said Olivia. “That's how.”

“Who gives 'em the right?” demanded Clay.

“Anything you send through the mail they got the right to open,” said Olivia. “It's the law.”

“Well,” exclaimed Clay, “I got a good mind not to do business with 'em. They got no right tellen me what I can write to my own brother. Now you write it like I tell you and if they give me any trouble I'll deal with 'em. Take it down like I tell you. What have you got so far?”

Olivia read back what she had until she came to “The trout fishen is goen to start soon….”

“And I hope to hell,” said Clay, “you will be here for it. Trout is goen to be plentiful this year from the looks of things and you come on up here and we will catch us a bushel.” He paused for a moment to give Olivia time to catch up
with him. “Are you writen it down just what I'm sayen?” he asked.

“Word for word,” replied Olivia, who had substituted “heck” for “hell.”

“Now you are probably wonderen what the devil I am doen writen to you,” continued Clay.

Olivia put down the pencil and pushed the tablet over to Clay.

“I'm not goen to write that,” she said.

“Well, say it someway else,” he said and pushed the tablet back to her.

“You are probably wondering what the goodness I am writing to you about,” wrote Olivia and waited.

“The reason is,” Clay went on, “that Clay-Boy is just about to get a chance to go to a college down there and they are willen to pay for everything but a place for him to sleep and somethin' for him to eat. It seems to me if they wanted him bad enough they'd take care of that too, but I know about as much about college as Alabama Sweetzer knows about Sunday school.”

“Clay!” said Olivia.

“Well, you know what I'm tryen to say. Put it down anyhow you want to.”

Olivia composed the idea to her own liking, wrote it and waited for Clay to continue.

“What I want to talk to you about is maybe you'll take Clay-Boy in with you down there and see no harm comes to him while they're given him an education. He's a good boy and won't trouble you none and no matter how he turns out, I'll spend the rest of my life maken it up to you. Yours till the well runs dry. Clay Spencer.”

In May Clay-Boy graduated from high school. His graduation present, a great surprise, was his high school ring. Clay-Boy had not expected the ring because Clay had objected to throwing away good money on jewelry, but Olivia had finally convinced Clay that it was a symbol of accomplishment rather than a useless ornament.

Since no word had come from the scholarship committee at the University of Richmond Clay-Boy had no way of knowing whether the dream of his going to college would come true or not. In the meantime there were long days ahead. He discussed with his father the possibility of seeking a temporary job at the mill, but Clay would not permit it.