Cold Sassy Tree (45 page)

And heck, Aunt Loma could put it on again. It was still ten days before school would let out for the holidays. I could help her—

"Will Tweedy? Boy, you come 'ere! Right now!" Papa was shouting at me before he got in the house and had his belt off before my feet could drag me down the stairs.

I got whipped good. And next day he made me go over to Aunt Loma's to say I was sorry.

Except for telling her I was sorry about the bosom stories I made up, which didn't count since Aunt Loma wasn't mad, I had never apologized to anybody in my life. But for once I was soaked through with honest remorse. Not for what I'd done, but for what it did to Aunt Loma.

I found her in her bedroom upstairs, sitting in a rocking chair nursing Campbell Junior. Her eyelids were red and swollen.

Trying not to rouse the baby, I whispered, "Aunt Loma, uh, you ain't go'n believe it, but, uh, uh, I wish now I hadn't of done that about the rats. It was a real good play and I'm ... I mean, I'll hep you if you want to put it on again next week. I, uh, I wish—" Something about her face plus having to whisper made me wind down.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe just a shrug of her shoulders, acknowledging she heard what I said. I sure didn't expect her to smile at me. I guess I wanted her to say something noble, like "I deserved it, Will. I've always treated you awful. The one that should be apologizin' is myself."

Maybe I hoped she would handle it like God. I mean the Bible says if you tell God you're sincerely sorry, He puts His arms around you and forgives you.

Well, Aunt Loma was not God that day by a long shot. What she said, keeping her voice down to a whispered scream because of the baby, was "Don't you talk to me about doin' it again next week, Will Tweedy! Just get out of my sight!" She was shaking all over, tears of fury streaming down her flushed face. Naturally Campbell Junior stopped sucking and went to bawling. "Get out of my house!" she yelled above his frightened wails. "I'll hate you till my dyin' day! Get out!
Get out!
"

With that she leaped up, holding the baby tight, and slapped my face so hard I reeled backwards.

I slammed the door to her room as I went out, and kicked the cats that were asleep in a pile by the back door.

My first thought was I'll never say I'm sorry again as long as I live.

My second thought was if anybody ever says I'm sorry to me, I sure ain't go'n slap him or push him away.

My third thought surprised me: I realized it felt good to be back on familiar ground with Aunt Loma. Ever since that day we'd had such a good time laughing about the bosom stories, I hadn't quite known how to act around her. Last night I could hardly enjoy thinking about those rats flying off the stage for worrying about her crying. Well, if she was determined never to forgive me, I might as well enjoy hating her again.

By time I got home, I was whistling.

After that, Aunt Loma stayed in a bad humor with everybody, especially Uncle Camp. Just for instance, the next Sunday while she was helping Mama and Queenie take up dinner, Campbell Junior fell all the way down our stairs. "I swanny to God, Campbell Williams!" she yelled. "Looks like you could at least see after your own son when I'm in the kitchen!"

"I'm sorry, Loma, I'm sorry," he said as he picked up the screaming baby.

"You sure are! You're just sorry!" screeched Aunt Loma, snatching Campbell Junior out of his arms. "That's the smartest thing you've said since the last time you said it."

When she wasn't fussing about him seeming glad to bring home the bent cans and weevily rice and flour we couldn't sell at the store, she was complaining about his not having any get-up-and-go. "You could at least
ast
Pa for a raise." After Grandpa went back to work just before Christmas, Aunt Loma had the gall to go ask him herself to raise Camp's pay.

Grandpa really blessed her out. "I don't even need Camp," he told her. "I shore cain't afford to pay him no more'n I awready do."

I don't know if Uncle Camp heard that, but I know he heard what was said a few hours later when Hosie Roach, the mill boy, came in to ask for a job. Hosie had washed himself and combed his hair and put on clean overalls, and I could tell Grandpa liked him. He even took Hosie back to the buggy shed to show him the cars. Hosie didn't get a job, but later Grandpa told Papa he shore wisht he could a-hired thet boy. "He'd be equal to three a-Camp."

At first I thought Grandpa didn't know Uncle Camp was standing right behind him. But maybe he did know and said it anyhow, hoping it would make Camp work harder.

The very next Saturday, Camp got some get-up-and-go and went. And the way he did it made my rat thing seem about like putting a frog in somebody's bed.

Aunt Loma never forgave him, either.

U
NCLE
C
AMP
got away from Aunt Loma while she was gone to Athens.

She had caught the train that Saturday morning, wearing a black wool dress and the big hat with ostrich plumes that Miss Love had made. She was to spend the day with her LaGrange College roommate, Sue Lee Gresham, who was now Mrs. Humphry Wright of Athens.

Uncle Camp had gone to work early that day, and since Papa thought any lady taking a train should have somebody see her off, he told me to drive Aunt Loma to the depot. To my mind she didn't need a ride any more than if she was going downtown, which she did every day, and besides, she was leaving Campbell Junior with Mama and Queenie. And naturally I wasn't too crazy about being by myself with her. She might take the occasion to raise Cain about the Christmas play. But Papa said to, so I went and got her.

She was far from friendly, but her mind was on Athens, not me or rats.

Aunt Loma really didn't want to go, or so she said as we waited at the depot. "Sue Lee's just usin' me as an excuse to have a luncheon. She hopes I'll be jealous of her. She's always writin' about her big house and her big dinner parties, and her husband bein' president of the bank. I don't call inheritin' a bank from your daddy any proof that you're smarter than the next fellow." Aunt Loma stepped back from the tracks as the train came in sight. "I just wish I hadn't told her I'd come."

I always thought ladies liked to be honor guests at a luncheon, and said so. "Besides, ain't nobody makin' you go."

"Camp made me," she said, real irritable.

"Well, I be-dog." Chalk up one for ole Camp.

"He promised to fix the faucet in the bathtub if I'd just get out of his way. Said he couldn't tackle the job with me standin' there watchin' him fail."

Poor ole Camp.

Papa said afterwards that Camp actually applied himself that morning at the store. Instead of waiting around to be told what to do, he put in a real good morning's work. And whereas he usually had about as much life in his eyes as a turtle, he seemed almost happy.

He and my daddy left together at dinnertime. On the way out the door, Camp asked Papa would he mind stopping by the house before going back to the store after dinner. Kind of apologetic, like he hated to take up Papa's time, he explained. "I'm fixin' to fix a leaky faucet, Mr. Hoyt, and I ain't never done one. I'd shore feel better if you'd come see did I do it right. I ... well, you know how Loma is."

Papa did stop by, though grudging. I was with him. The door was open, despite it was a cold day, and we went on in. "Camp?" Papa called.

"I'm in the kitchen, Mr. Hoyt. Come on back, hear."

The shot rang out about time Papa set foot in the dining room. Neighbors said they heard somebody scream. It must of been me or Papa, one, though later I couldn't recall anything except the smell of gunpowder and, on the floor, a big long blob of blue and white checked oilcloth from the store. I didn't have to be told that Uncle Camp was under the oilcloth. He had laid down on a length of it, pulled one end up over him like a sheet and the other end down over his head and chest, and after calling Papa to come on back, had put the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I reckon he figured if all the blood and bits of bone and brains got trapped in the oilcloth, Loma Baby wouldn't be mad at him.

Papa lifted the part that was over Camp's head, put it down quick, and turned away, his face like ashes. I had seen, too. I stood there, shaking. Finally I said, "Papa, want me to run get Doc Slaughter?"

He could hardly speak. "Run get Mr. Birdsong, son."

Mr. Birdsong offered me a ride up beside him in the driver's seat of the old horse-drawn hearse, the one he called an ambulance if the person wasn't dead. Since neighbors were already gathering, he drove the horses around to the back door, where my daddy was waiting. Papa had closed the kitchen door and hadn't let anybody go in there.

Mr. Birdsong tied Uncle Camp up in that oilcloth like he was a dern side of beef. Me and Papa helped carry him out, and rode with him to the big old white-columned funeral parlor.

Mr. and Mrs. Birdsong and their nine children lived upstairs. Helping take Uncle Camp in there, I wondered how they could stand to live like that with dead bodies, especially when it was one that had committed suicide.

Papa hurried home to tell Mama and sent me to the store to tell Grandpa and them, but they had already heard. As I ran in, Grandpa met me at the door, grim of face. He asked me a few questions, then stalked off to the funeral parlor.

Soon as I could get away from the customers who pressed around, asking more questions, I ran back to Aunt Loma's. I wanted to make sure there wasn't any blood or anything on the floor.

If there was, Mrs. Brown next door had cleaned it up. But I could still see Uncle Camp, same as if he was laying right there with his brains blowed out, and it made me sick. I felt about to faint. Leaving the kitchen, I rushed past the people whispering in the hall and went to the bathroom.

I nearly stumbled over the plumbing tools. Uncle Camp had left them on the floor by the tub.

Just what you'd expect, Camp not putting up his tools.

Then I saw a piece of paper stuck under the big wrench. I knew it was for Aunt Loma, but horses couldn't of kept me from reading it.

You can get the creeps, I tell you, reading what a dead man has just written. This is what it said:

Loma baby i tryed to plan so as not to mess up yr kitchen, i loved you since the day i layed eyes on you you jus as pretty now as then. so it aint you Loma baby its i aint good for nuthin. which you know, its got so jus getin out of bed ever mornin is to much, i pact up my close and all in a box so you woodn have to fool with it. my leavin this werl dont have nuthin to do with you bein mad at me for not fixin the fawsit I bin aimin to do it a long time fore the fawsit went to leekin.

plese save my gold pockit watch for Campbell Junior i leeve it to him i aired it from my grandedy you know, i love you an always will but now you can have some pese. tell mr. Blakesly i preshate him givin me the job like he done now he can fine him somebody who can do him a good dase work

i hope god will forgive me so i can meet you in heven.

plese dont be mad i have plan it so you wont be the one to fine me.

yr lovin husban Campbell Williams.

p.s. i fixt the fawsit

p.s. i wont to be berit in cold sassy so you can vist me some time.

yr lovin husban Campbell Williams.

The page blurred. I wished so bad I could of known Uncle Camp for the past three years like I knew him now that he was dead. But even as I stood there holding his sweet and lonely words, I heard water going
drip, drip, drip
into the bathtub.

I picked up the wrench and changed the washer. Nobody was go'n say Campbell Williams was so sorry that he couldn't even fix a faucet. It was a small thing to do for somebody brave enough to put a pistol in his mouth and shoot.

A
LONG WITH
half the town, my family met the late train from Athens.

Grandpa said later that folks just came to see how Loma would take the news, but I don't know. It seemed to me that going to the depot was the only way they could think of to show her they were sorry poor Camp had gone to Hell so young. Camp having committed suicide, and not living long enough afterwards to ask God to forgive him, there was no way he could ever be reunited with Loma or Campbell Junior in Paradise.

Naturally we all thought there would just be a quick private burying. Cold Sassy certainly never expected Camp would be brought home to lie in state.

But he was.

By first dark, Aunt Loma's little house was filling up with folks who had brought food and were waiting to speak to the new widow before settling in to eat. Loma was still upstairs in her room when here came Uncle Camp in a fine golden oak coffin with metal handles, riding in style in Mr. Birdsong's fine new glass-sided, gilt-trim black hearse drawn by two black horses with black plumes on their heads.

As soon as the horses stopped, Mr. Birdsong got down from the driver's seat, went in the house, and asked everybody to leave the parlor. Then he and his three sons carried in the coffin, escorted by my grandfather. His grimness forbade any comment as he stalked across the yard behind the coffin. Those watching looked shocked, like it was as awful for Camp to be brought home like a regular corpse as for him to of shot himself in the first place.

Though the undertaker clearly disapproved, they toted Uncle Camp into Aunt Loma's little parlor as if he had a right to be there. I followed close behind Grandpa, who told me to come in and close the sliding double doors.

Mr. Birdsong unfolded his new collapsible casket stand and set it up right in front of the white mantelpiece that Uncle Camp had painted. I don't know why, but I walked over to see if the button, the pencil, and the cockroach were still there. They were, of course, just same as Granny's death was still in the Toy Bible.

Loma had hung the Saint-Cecilia-at-the-organ mirror above the mantel. I watched in it as the boys lifted the casket onto the stand and Mr. Birdsong laid a big wreath of wax flowers on top, about where Uncle Camp's hands that held the pistol would now be pressed together in prayer.