Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
Rust On the Razor (4 page)
From the back of the room a man in a police uniform stood up. He swaggered toward us. I figured it was a good thing that he wasn't wearing mirrored sunglasses indoors.
He stopped at our table. Louise hustled herself off.
He was maybe six-three and might have been an athlete at one time. His paunch protruded several inches over his belt, and the gun, flashlight, ticket book, and handcuffs around his waist seemed to drag his pants to the point of slipping off. His shirt stretched tightly across broad shoulders as well as around his bulging belly. Perhaps if I'd been standing, I wouldn't have felt as intimidated.
He waited for Scott to finish blowing his nose.
“Morning, Scott,” he said.
“Morning, Peter,” Scott said. “Good to see you.”
“I'm sheriff now.”
“I heard.”
Peter, the sheriff, placed two huge hands on either side of our table. “I won't have any of that faggot shit in here or in this town. No holding hands or anything else. You keep your lifestyle out of here. This is not going to happen while I'm in charge.”
His voice carried. If I thought it was quiet when we walked in, now I didn't hear a whisper of conversation. The grill ignored us and spat bacon grease; maybe
it
wasn't prejudiced. Louise dropped a dish; the clatter seemed to rattle and echo forever. Her fellow waitress shushed her.
it
wasn't prejudiced. Louise dropped a dish; the clatter seemed to rattle and echo forever. Her fellow waitress shushed her.
“If I can, I'll run you and your faggot buddy out of town.”
I desperately wanted to go berserk. I rose from the booth. It flashed through my head that this was America, and I was a law-abiding person. I remembered snatches of patriotic blather about living in a great democracy and being equal. But more immediately, Scott was in pain, his father might die any moment, and here was this bully.
I heard Scott saying, “Tom, sit down. Come on, Peter, we were friends when we were kids.”
I ignored him. I did not shove Peter, the sheriff, but my movement caused him to step back. I tried to keep my voice calm. I could feel my lips quivering, and I had to draw deep breaths between nearly every word to keep from completely losing control. I said, “We haven't done anything wrong. You need to leave us alone. We're just here having breakfast. Please go away.” Maybe that sounds wimpy to you, but it scared the hell out of me to be defying this guy.
The sheriff began to shout, but I didn't stop speaking. “We have broken no laws,” I said. “We have committed no crimes. We are here because his father is ill. You will leave us alone.”
His shouts had something to do with him being the sheriff and he'd arrest my Yankee ass and no snot-nosed northern scum was going to come into his town and flaunt their faggot lifestyle.
Scott said things like, “Come on, Peter, ease up.”
I finished talking and the sheriff stopped bellowing at about the same time. We stared at each other. It dawned on me that while my words might be brave, it might have been a whole lot brighter of me to have kept my mouth shut. Visions of dank southern jails and rabid mobs of angry people seized my imagination. Maybe if I got to know the people, I wouldn't be so prejudiced. Or maybe they were all as big a buffoon as this moron. Our verbiage spent for the moment, we stood breathing like critters rattling antlers at each other, waiting to bang our heads together.
Peter did not look at all ready to ease anything. I stepped back a pace, hunched my shoulders, and clenched my fists, ready for the physical assault I felt sure would come.
Several patrons scuttled out the door. Many gaped in fascination. At the farthest booth from the door, a woman
in a white silk blouse and a gray skirt stood up and strode to us. She planted herself between the sheriff and me.
in a white silk blouse and a gray skirt stood up and strode to us. She planted herself between the sheriff and me.
Before we could resume hostilities, she said, “Peter, you are making a fool of yourself. If they do something wrong, by all means arrest them. At the moment they're facing what you and I and all of us are going to face, the death of our parents.”
Peter started to speak.
She held up her hand. “Go home, Peter. Go to the police station. Go on patrol. Leave them alone.”
Peter drew himself up and glanced around the restaurant. Patrons quickly stuck their faces back in their meals. “You two better watch yourselves while you're in town,” he said. “You do the slightest thing wrong, and I'll lock up your faggot asses.” He adjusted the bill of his cap, tugged at his belt, and swaggered to the door. He shoved it open, marched to his car, yanked open the door, and started the car with a roar. Tires squealing, he flew out of the parking lot.
The woman who'd confronted the sheriff was a foot shorter than I was. Her gray hair clung in tight curls to her forehead. She slipped a pair of gold-rim glasses from her face and let them dangle on a slender gold chain.
“Thank you for your help,” I said.
She gave me a tight-lipped smile and turned to Scott. “I hope your father has a full recovery.” She marched out of the restaurant.
Louise returned with a tray filled with our orders. She placed each item on the table in rapid succession.
“Who was that?” I asked Scott.
“Clara Thorton.”
“Why did she intervene?”
“I don't know.”
Louise leaned over and whispered, “She's the county commissioner. She doesn't like Sheriff Woodall.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I have to get my other orders.” Louise fled.
“County commissioner must be all-powerful,” I said. “I wonder what hold she has on him. Do you know her?”
“Vaguely. I remember her husband more. He was the town pharmacist when I was a kid.”
“I hope we don't have trouble from Peter Woodall. You knew each other?”
“Oh, yeah. Peter and I went through grade and high school together. We were close friends for many years. He was always at my house and stayed over a lot. He wanted a pro career as a football player, and if that didn't work, he'd take baseball. Thought he was pretty hot shit, but he didn't want to pay the price, do all the hard work. Thought he was a natural, and he did have a lot of talent, but he didn't get either career. Got himself elected sheriff couple of elections ago.”
“Was he this big of an asshole as a kid?”
“Aren't most kids assholes sometimes?”
“I don't think I want whimsical philosophy. I want cheap, tawdry gossip.”
Scott ate a few bites of his breakfast and sipped at his orange juice. Finally he said, “The goofiest thing he and I did as kids was build a raft and try and cross Jefferson Swamp with it.”
“Why was that goofy?”
“There's no current. The water just sits there. The only thing that happened was the damn raft kept sinking. Water isn't all that deep most places in the swamp, except when it rains. Lots of very unpleasant snakes, though.”
“Always wanted a snake-filled swamp in my neighborhood.”
“For weeks, the summer we made our raft, we were filthy and muddy every day when we got home. I got used to sneaking in, changing clothes, and doing my own laundry to hide it from Mama.”
“Seems kind of more innocent and wholesome than goofy.”
“You ever spend hours chopping down anemic, innocent trees and trying to tie them together with scraps of rope stolen from your dad's barn?”
“I led a swamp-deprived childhood. We built forts in a vacant lot.”
“For two weeks Peter and I had canteens filled with water that never lasted long enough. We had peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches that got soaked in vile swamp water every day because of our ineptitude. We had planned to sail on a great adventure. We never got two feet.”
“Don't all kids make plans for great adventures or have wild dreams and fantasies?”
“And what was yours?”
I ate some of the warm and not overly greasy waffles and bacon. I glanced at my watch. “Shouldn't we be getting back to the hospital?”
“You're ashamed and embarrassed to say what you did.”
“I'm not ashamed and embarrassed.”
He grinned for the first time since his mother called. “This is Scott you're talking to.”
“I'm a little ashamed and embarrassed. I'll tell you later. I'm finished. Let's go.”
We walked back to the hospital. I was in a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants, both of which were wrinkled from wearing them overnight. Scott was in gray dress pants and a white shirt that also looked slept in. We both needed shaves. I could have used a shower. I yawned. “We both need sleep,” I said. “If your dad's okay, we better think about it.”
He nodded.
At the hospital the nurse told us there had been no change in his father's condition. We talked to Scott's sister and mom for a few minutes. Scott stopped in to see his dad. He came back out to say that he was sleeping peacefully. Since we'd been awake the longest, it was decided that we'd go get some sleep and come back early that
afternoon. At that time there would be a large family conference.
afternoon. At that time there would be a large family conference.
Outside in the cloying heat I asked, “Are we really going to stay at your parents' house?”
“Mama said it was okay. Why not? It's the house I grew up in.”
I'd always wanted to see that. He'd been to my parents' place millions of times. I wanted to know everything about where he grew up and what he did when he was a kidâmemories and secrets about the person you love. Before today I'd never had a chance to be in his hometown and this could be my only one.
Scott drove us out a two-lane highway east of Brinard.
“I thought you bought your mom and dad a new house in Wascaloosa, Alabama.”
“I did. Wascaloosa's daddy's hometown. They didn't like it. They lived there a couple years, then moved back to the old place. Shannon kept the old place exactly as it was. I paid for any improvements they asked for in the old house. It's got central air-conditioning that cost more to install than it would have to build them a whole new house.”
“Air-conditioning is a good thing.”
“New plumbing and new electric, too.”
“Tell me you didn't have to use an outhouse as a kid.”
“I didn't have to use an outhouse as a kid.”
We passed a school complex. A three-story red brick building with long rectangular windows stood in the center of several acres. It looked like it had been there since the American Revolution. Several one- and two-story structures surrounded it, including a larger building with no windows, which I took to be a gymnasium. I saw a running track and a stadium open at both ends, with two sets of concrete bleachers running along the longer sides. In the distance was a baseball field with lights and a small grandstand.
I pointed. “Is that where you went to high school?”
“Grade school, everything. That's the ball field I played on since I was a little kid. Under those stands was where thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds would sneak to smoke during lunch.”
“Where'd the older kids go?”
“They had cars, the woods, or more important things to do. I can still picture the first time I hit a home run on that field.”
“You remember that?”
“Absolutely. I must have been twelve. I was so scrawny, my uniform draped on my body.”
“But you still had muscles?”
“I was lucky. Tall and thin, but strong. It was after school on a Thursday, our first game of the season, against Eugenia Junior High School in Filmore County. That's just south of here. We were losing about fifteen to one. I hit the ball just over the left-field fence. Everybody cheered as if we'd won the game. Still lost by ten runs.”
“When did you start pitching and stop hitting?”
“I always pitched, but when you're a kid and you're good, they try and get you to play all the time. Even when it wasn't baseball season, I remember pitching and practicing for hours. We didn't have lights back then. We'd play until it got too black to see the ball. We tried flashlights once. Didn't work.” He smiled. “I'll never forget the time one of the other fathers got really mad, because in one game when I was fourteen, I struck out all the other kids. Big, ugly old guy in bib overalls, kind of a snaggle tooth.”
“He did not.”
“Okay, no overalls and no tooth, but the rest is true. I think he wore a white shirt and tie. Anyway, the guy said it wasn't fair and that I should have a handicap. My daddy and him got into a fistfight.”
“Anybody get arrested or sued?”
“That's not the way we settled arguments back then. It was just a fight. Only a couple punches got thrown. The other guy had to be helped away. My daddy wasn't going to let some fool hurt his son's chances for fame.”
“Must have been great being a star in a small town.”
“I never thought about it much as a kid. I was so good from an early age. It's not arrogance, it's just some people are lucky enough to be born gifted athletes, the way that some people are real smart. I knew I was better, I guess. Stuff that was hard for other kids came easy for me.”
We were passing through mostly green countryside. Occasional patches of unwonted brown field testified to the drought the rain the night before had not relieved.
“This reminds me of the road to our place in Wisconsin,” I said. “Not real flat countrysideâlots of evergreen trees mixed in with the hardwoods.”
“I guess it isn't much different, âcept for the lack of snow in the winter.”
Past a pig farm on the outskirts of town was a complex of gleaming buildings fronted by a red brick church with soaring steeple. “Reverend Hollis's church,” Scott said.
I stared at the lush green lawn even now being watered by sprinklers scattered throughout the vast sward sloping to the road. It didn't look like fire and brimstone.
We passed a trailer park. An old couple sat on corroded aluminum chairs on a small slab in front of the first unit facing the road. Their eyes followed our movement past, but I doubted if anything besides the Second Coming rolling directly in front of them would have gotten them to move. Dirt roads occasionally led off to the right or the left. Despite the drought sometimes I glimpsed ponds of water standing in the distance.
As we drove over a small rise Scott said, “You can see the house there a little bit.”
I followed his finger to the left and saw a red roof amid green foliage. Minutes later we pulled onto a dirt road that Scott took for a half a mile. Then he pulled onto a driveway that went maybe fifty feet to a clearing. The house was an unremarkable two-story, almost block-shaped affair. We parked on what I would have called the front lawn.
After he turned the engine off, the first thing I noticed was the incredible quiet. You couldn't hear a passing car, train, or plane. I stood for a minute taking in the morning heat, the totally green surroundings, and then began to pick out small noises: birds in the trees, a dog barking some distance off, the wind as it brushed against the leaves. I could smell woods, and dirt, and freshness.
One long porch ran along the entire front of the house. The screens looked new, and the flower-print covers on the lawn furniture inside gleamed brightly.
To the left and twenty feet behind the house was a barn. Past it were three smaller buildings that looked in need of repair. In the distance was a field of more than five acres with lush green something growing in it. Being from the Midwest I recognize corn and wheat and, in a pinch, soybean. This wasn't any of them.
I tapped Scott on the shoulder. “What's growing in that field? Molasses? Sorghum? Sugar cane? Okra? Drought doesn't seem to have affected it. Sure looks good. Do your parents have irrigation? What is it?”
Scott glanced that way for a second and said, “Weeds.”
Who knew?
He said, “Don't need much irrigation in Georgia.”
To the right of the house as you faced it was a small orchard, which I presumed contained peach trees. I'd seen about a million signs already advertising Georgia peaches. About ten feet to the right of the house was a jumble of car parts surrounding an old Chevy pickup missing the windshield
and a left front tire. Next to it was a Toyota truck, sides dirt-encrusted, but windshield intact and tires where they belonged.
and a left front tire. Next to it was a Toyota truck, sides dirt-encrusted, but windshield intact and tires where they belonged.
“You grew up here?”
“I was born here.”
“Do you have a key?”
“Mama and Daddy haven't ever locked up.”
We entered through the front door and stepped into a huge space that stretched the entire length of the right side of the house. Toward the front it was a living room, with a brown couch and unmatched chairs of varying kinds, all well stuffed and topped with doilies. Behind this was a massive dining-room table made of thick wood and polished to a shine. Ten sturdy, matching chairs surrounded it. An armoire and a chifforobe, both dark mahogany and highly polished, stood against the walls on either side of the table. Behind this was a gigantic kitchen. Doors to our left were closed.
“Where's your room?”
“Upstairs. All the kids slept up there. Mama and Daddy slept down here. Who'd want to be near all those kids?”
We took our suitcases up with us. The stairs were wooden, with a carpet running down the center. We passed down a hall to the last door on the left. I followed him in. Two twin beds lay against opposite walls. Framed schedules from four high-school baseball seasons hung on the wall above the bed on the left. Half the barn was visible through a window. On each side of the opening were framed pages of the Chicago papers from the days Scott won his World Series games. To the right of the door were a closet and two small dressers.
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