Winter Birds (42 page)

“Sounds like school,” Hardy says. “Raise your hands and get in line.” Mindy studies her fingernails. Here is an ambiguity: Perhaps she smiles briefly, or perhaps she winces from a sudden small pain.

Seventeen people want a slice of pie. Joanna Lebo says she’s gained too much weight and is trying to stay away from sugar. Mitchell says Ahab will have only ice cream. And Della Boyd’s sister-in-law, a petite red-haired woman, publicizes this fact: “I don’t really like fruit pie all that much, especially if the crust isn’t homemade.” Hers was the voice I overheard earlier: “Why all the fuss over a couple of pies?” And even earlier: “Well, that sure must be a lot of fun, taking care of your husband’s
aunt
full time.”

The red-haired woman reminds me of someone. As I cut slices of peach pie, I can’t get her out of my mind. She is beautiful to look at. She wears slim blue pants with a matching blouse and white sandals. Her earrings are silver. Her toenails are painted red. Perhaps she reminds me of another teacher at one of the schools where I taught or a former neighbor, perhaps the mother of a student.

Or perhaps I am thinking of certain birds I have read about, whose appearance conflicts with their actions. There are hunting birds called raptors that are as pretty as songbirds. It is their behavior, not their looks, that settles the matter.

If this woman, Catherine by name, did not open her mouth, one might think her to be as mild and harmless as Rachel. But she is no gentle creature. There appears to be no filter between her thoughts and her tongue, no shut-off valve. Whatever enters her mind drops like a waterfall and flows from her mouth. I try to imagine such a woman as the mother of three teenagers. No doubt sparks have flown in that home.

Perhaps her sharp tongue and her name combine to remind me of Katharina in
The Taming of the Shrew
—the original Katharina, that is, not the tamed one. It was a play of which Eliot was fond. I was not. I did not like Petruchio’s methods. I did not like the suggestion that a woman can be manipulated like a child.

But it is hard to imagine anyone taming this Catherine. I can only guess that her husband has had his hands full, as my father liked to say. I cannot imagine her obeying a man’s wishes quietly and meekly. I certainly cannot imagine her giving such a speech as Katharina gives at the end of Shakespeare’s play, when instructed to tell other women what duty they owe their husbands.

There are names for headstrong women, some of them from the animal kingdom. Barracuda is one that comes to mind. But I do not know her. I have observed her less than two hours. I should not judge. Perhaps this is only her public face. Perhaps she mellows as one gets to know her.

Catherine’s husband comes through the line. His name is Blake. I see his hands resting on the edge of the table. They are large, manly hands. If anyone could handle the quick-tongued Catherine, he could. Yet he is a gentleman. “Thank you for sharing this with the rest of us,” he says, leaning forward. “It almost looks too good to eat.” I do not point out his misplaced modifier.

I glance briefly at his face, his dark eyes, his pleasant smile. During the meal I thought him handsome from a distance of two tables. Now I see that he is the same up close. During the meal I took note of his attentiveness to his wife’s needs. I saw the way he turned to her when they talked. He gives no evidence of being dominated by her. I cannot say what system they have devised for their marriage. I see only what I see. One can hear a clock tick, can watch its hands move without comprehending its inner workings. I hear his wife’s voice rise in the background now, saying to someone else, “Well, there’s no way
that
can be a homemade crust. It looks too perfect!” I cut his piece slightly larger than the others.

Katharina’s closing speech in
The Taming of the Shrew
was the subject of a paper Eliot wrote during the mid-1970s—an unlucky bit of timing considering the fervor of the women’s movement during that decade. To my secret satisfaction, the paper was never accepted for publication, though Eliot considered it some of his best writing. For so smart a man, he did not understand that the words were out of tune by the standards of a world in which women were no longer securely ensconced at home, whose husbands no longer labored to keep them so.

It surprises me to realize how stirred I still feel at the memory of this paper, titled rather frivolously “Petruchio’s Dream Come True.” I was not convinced by Katharina’s change, so complete and so swift. Imagine a wasp, a wildcat, a devil of a woman being brought within five acts to speak words such as these: “Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy head, thy sovereign.” And this lord of a husband, the former shrew informs other women, desires “no other tribute at thy hands” except love, beauty, and obedience. Indeed, what more could a man want from a wife than adoration, good looks, and subservience? Shakespeare says nothing in the play about what a woman wants from a husband. But Shakespeare, like any other man, was a product of his time. Perhaps his art cannot be faulted for that.

“Rachel, come up here and get your pie!” Patrick calls. She has held back, telling others to go first, occupying herself with Ahab, who has fallen and skinned his knee. She cradles him in her lap as he wails loudly and clings to her. She rises and comes to the table, still holding Ahab. “I think I’ll take him in to get a Band-Aid first,” she says. The wound on Ahab’s knee is barely visible. There is no blood.

“Well, okay,” Patrick says, “but come right back. Aunt Sophie has already cut your piece and set it aside.” She starts toward the house. “You’ll want ice cream, too!” he calls. “The pie is still a little warm.” Rachel and Patrick have likewise devised a system for their marriage past my understanding. Perhaps I should say that Patrick has devised a system and Rachel has accepted it. For a moment I try to imagine Patrick married to someone like Catherine. I try to think of her response were he to say, “Catherine, come up here and get your pie!” But the picture does not take shape. I cannot imagine Patrick or Rachel with anyone else.

“He is starting young,” I say to Patrick as we watch her carry Ahab inside.

“Starting what?” he says.

“Theatrics for the purpose of arousing a woman’s sympathy,” I say.

“Hey, I heard that,” a voice says, and I turn to see Hardy waiting for the next piece of pie. He suddenly clutches at his stomach and staggers forward, his eyes rolling back in his head, his mouth gaping. He gasps, utters a deep groan, and collapses to the ground but immediately springs to his feet, the fringe on his cowboy vest jiggling wildly. “There, how’s that for theatrics?” he says. “Did I arouse your sympathy, huh, did I? Can I have a piece of pie, huh, can I?”

I am tempted to ask Hardy if he has a partner named Laurel, but I refrain. I serve his plate, then say, “There, go sit down, Roy Rogers, and calm yourself.”

He takes the plate, throws his head back, and calls, “Hi-ho, Silver!”

“That was the Lone Ranger, not Roy Rogers,” I say.

His eyes brighten. “You are right! I was just testing you. Mindy said you were smart, so I had to check it out. Which reminds me. Do you know where the Lone Ranger took all his trash?” And without waiting for me to answer, he sings, “To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump.”

Patrick can hardly contain his laughter. “Hey, that’s
funny!
I’m going to remember that one!” It is just the kind of joke Patrick would love. He is laughing so hard he has trouble landing the scoop of ice cream on Hardy’s plate.

“I bet you’re wondering how I know about Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger, huh?” says Hardy.

“No, I am not,” I say.

“Well, okay, okay. Don’t beg. I’ll satisfy your curiosity,” he says. “I know you can’t tell it from looking at me, but I’m very retro-savvy. I know all about those old TV programs.
Sky King, Sea Hunt, Zorro
, and all the rest. It’s a hobby that—”

“Hey, you’re holding up the line,” his sister says behind him. “She’s not interested in hearing about your deviant lifestyle.”

“Oh, but she is,” Hardy says, leaning forward. “I can see it deep in her
eyes
.”

This party is like the train that used to come through Methuselah. The Everlasting Train, we used to call it. You could take a long nap while it rattled by, boxcar after boxcar with no caboose in sight. If you had an appointment on the other side of town, you would miss it.

Dessert done, Patrick supervises the cleanup, scurrying about and shouting directions as if time were running out. It is not yet seven o’clock. When all of the tables are cleared and the trash bags cinched, Patrick begins explaining all the rules of horseshoes, consulting a paper he has printed off the Internet. He goes on and on. When he starts talking about the history of the game, attributing its beginnings to Roman soldiers, Steve breaks in. “Well, maybe that’s enough to get us started.”

“Okay, any questions so far?” Patrick asks.

“Can you throw overhand?” Hardy asks, to which Patrick replies with great seriousness, “Oh no. You’d never, never want to do that.”

“See, I told you,” Hardy says to Mindy. To the rest of us he says, “She wanted me to ask.”

“I did not!” Mindy says. She acts indignant, but anyone can see it’s only an act.

“Any other questions?” Patrick says hopefully.

Hardy speaks up again. “Are there pony shoes instead of horseshoes for really young small children like my little brother here?” His brother, red-haired like their mother and almost as tall as Hardy, gives him a shove.

“No, no. Everyone uses the same size,” Patrick says.

These are things I learn about the game of horseshoes: First, I learn that there are innings, foul lines, and a pitcher’s box as in baseball. Second, each contestant throws two horseshoes per inning. Third, you can score with points, ringers, or double ringers. And fourth, a tournament can take a long time if twelve people want to play. I find myself hoping that Hardy and his partner, Mitchell, will make a good showing, although it is obvious from the beginning that Hardy is putting more effort into entertaining Mindy than in winning the game. The winning partnerships advance to a playoff round with modified rules, and in the end Wes Lebo and one of Steve’s friends are declared the overall champions.

“Rats,” says Hardy. “That woulda looked so good in the hometown paper: ‘Hardy Biddle Makes Competitors Eat Dust in Game of Horseshoes While Visiting in Mississippi.’”

The party is still young. It is almost seven-thirty when the game is finished and Steve and Potts bring out their guitars. They strum a few chords, and some of the men pull their chairs closer. The rest of us sit around to see what will come of this. Ahab is in the sandbox, burying plastic toys and digging them up again.

“Hey, let’s sing something!” Hardy says. This is not something you expect a boy like him to say. But before there is time to consider whether he is joking, a male ensemble somehow organizes itself. Steve and Potts begin singing and playing a solemn song called “Deep River,” and Blake, Hardy, Patrick, and Mitchell join in. “My home is over Jordan,” the song says, and “I want to cross over into campground.” With the other stronger voices, Patrick’s tenor sounds less like a trembling reed in the wind.

It is a concert of spirituals that they sing: “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” “Poor Wayfaring Stranger.” Steve and Potts move easily from one song into another, as if it is a repertoire they rehearse often. They keep going when the others drop out.

I hear the words clearly, words that would sound strange out of their context. In their context, however, everything is right about them: “A band of angels comin’ after me,” “Sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down,” “He’s got the tiny little baby in his hands,” “A-travelin’ through this world of woe.” The men’s voices blend better than one would expect at a backyard cookout.

Potts starts a new song that the others apparently don’t know: “The gospel train is comin’, / I hear it just at hand.” Steve and Potts sing it as though it’s their favorite. “Get on board, little children,” they sing. This one moves along. Not like the Everlasting Train of Methuselah but like an express train. “I hear that train a-comin’,” they sing. “She sure is speedin’ fast, / So get your tickets ready, / And ride to heav’n at last!” Then the chorus again, louder and faster this time, then again softer and faster still as if the train has blown through town and is racing against the clock. “Get on board, little children,” they sing one last time, slow and easy now as if pulling into the station, “there’s room for many a-more.”

They stop and there is a moment of silence before Della Boyd says, “Oh my, that was just
wonderful!
You two should make a record! You sure
should!
” She begins clapping her hands and others join in.

I look at the men around me—at Steve and his two friends, at Blake, Wes Lebo, Potts, and Mitchell. Yes, and Patrick, too. And here is what I think: There are good men in this world. I look at the boys—at Hardy and his brother, at Ahab. Yes, there is hope here, also.

Mindy is sitting next to Hardy’s sister, the two of them looking like twins with their blond hair and pretty faces. Mindy’s eyes are fixed on Hardy. She has not yet learned the tactic used by some women, who take care to appear unaware of a man’s presence. Mindy stares openly. I wonder if she has thought of Prince today.

The guitars are put away, but the party is far from over. It is going on nine o’clock, and at last the sky is growing dark. Allowing for no lull, Teri jumps up and announces, “Okay, time for charades. Everybody plays this one!” Steve turns on the floodlights he has rented. Teri has prepared little slips of paper on which are written phrases to be acted out. There will be two teams: men versus women.

It is a silly game but one that everybody seems to like. There is much laughter as the phrases are acted out: “mum’s the word,” “dressed to the nines,” “put up your dukes,” “the whole ball of wax,” and so forth. Before we know it, the light has faded. Just as Teri’s aunt Helena is acting out “close but no cigar,” we hear faint popping and whistling noises. Above the treetops large glittery flowers of red and blue fireworks burst open in the sky. “Anybody want to go down to the levee?” Steve asks. “It’s only a few blocks. We can take my truck.”