Raintree County (26 page)

—These are the six I wanted, he said. I had copies of them once, but lost them all.

He carried them to an open window and held them up to the light. Through a glass darkly, he saw one by one four men and two women, hovering in chemical prisons.

—The Senator and Mr. Carney will be pleased to see themselves as young men, the photographer said. As for Mr. Stiles, I don't remember him, and the two women are unfamiliar. Any relation?

—No, not exactly, Mr. Shawnessy said.

He dwelt a long time on the images of the two women, holding them side by side. Under one picture was the caption N. Gaither; under the other, S. Drake.

Bodies of beautiful women floated in a pale river of remembrance, white flesh dissolving in green acid of years. Traced on the plate of memory with a finger of light, their lost forms wavered, a vaporous smoke on the sullen and triumphant earth.

N. Gaither. Ovidian statue starting into life, Daphne in a mesh of Raintree County reeds.
We parted in the springtime of life, Nell and I.

A sweet anguish vexed him, and he turned to the other plate.

S. Drake. Little sleepwalker from an alien earth, bearer of a scarlet mark.
O, Susanna! Do not cry for me.

J. Shawnessy. Lost boy whom girl mouths once called Johnny, just risen from the tumult of the Square where all is sunlight and the greatest athlete in Raintree County stands with cocked arm bulging. O, innocent and unforgotten boy!

But where were all the other images that mixed on the plateglass windows of the Square, each window recording the image of a clockless Court House?

He held a vitreous world, the creature of a god whose radiant finger wrote all the legends that were ever written. Musing, he studied a vanished Raintree County reflected on

in a golden prism, including the form of Cash Carney, who leaned against the window reading a copy of the
Clarion,
and the form of Johnny Shawnessy, who had just stopped to say hello.

—Had your face friz yet, John?

—My appointment's for three o'clock, Johnny said.

—I've had mine, Cash said. To while away the time, listen to Garwood's latest potshot.

He read aloud:

—A report comes from the Upper Shawmucky that Seth Twigs got kicked in his think-box by a mule and sustained a slight injury (the mule cracked a hoof). Seth has been having delusions of grandeur since and has got the idea that he can beat any man in this county footracing, including the great Orville (better known as Flash) Perkins of Freehaven. Now we do not want to discourage the roseate dreams of youth. Nor do we wish to underestimate the speed of foot Seth may have acquired keeping away from various citizens he has slandered in the
Enquirer.
But when we mentioned this matter to Rube Shucks, Rube said, ‘Seth Twigs is the laziest critter in Raintree County. He never runned a step in his life. Seth Twigs once let a hive of bees swarm on 'im ruthern break out of a shuffle. Flash Perkins kin run faster backways with a pianner on his neck than Seth kin frontways. If Seth Twigs beats Flash Perkins in a footrace, I will personly plunge my haid into the Shawmucky and swaller the fust big ole stinkin' catfish comes along, horns and all.'

—Garwood isn't going to like that catfish, Johnny said.

He had been looking at his reflection in the plateglass window. He was twenty years old and had gained a good deal of weight in the last year. He was six feet tall. His hair was dark and wavy and shot with red. His face had lost its pimply, boyish look. He had on a new suit bought especially for the Graduation Exercises at the
Academy. His legs in the tight pants were lithe and long. The knobs of his new shoes shone. A bowtie was poised on his throat like an irrelevant butterfly. It had been two years since anyone had beat Johnny Shawnessy in a race, and his friends had been encouraging him to try his speed against Flash Perkins, Raintree County's most famous athlete, in the annual Fourth of July Footrace.

This day, a Saturday, he had come into town to get his picture taken. The Graduation Exercises were only two weeks away, and the graduates had all agreed to exchange images of each other in the
carte de visite
size.

Cash unlipped his cigar and tipped the ash. His eyes were soft and visionary.

—It's been five years since anyone laid a bet against Flash Perkins. John, if you could beat Flash, we could clean up the biggest pot a money ever bet in Raintree County.

—I wouldn't want my friends to lose any money on me, Johnny said.

—I got a plan, Cash said. You remember the race two years ago when Flash was so drunk they practickly had to carry him to the starting line?

—He nearly got beat.

—By a secondrate runner too—a man you could whip with your legs tied in a potato sack.

—If Flash Perkins is drunk next Fourth, he's a gone goose, Johnny said. I think I can beat him sober, and I know I can beat him drunk.

The image of Johnny Shawnessy in the window stood with shoulders well back. The bowtie appeared just ready to wing its way off.

—I got a plan, Cash Carney said.

As always when he was dreaming up a good plan, his eyes became soft and christlike.

—I got a sure-fire plan for getting Flash Perkins to the starting line pig-drunk. Listen to this! About an hour before racetime, you go and find Flash. He'll be here at the Saloon showing his muscles and bragging. You go up to him, and you say, Perkins, I've heard enough of your blow about how you can beat any man in Raintree County drunk or sober. I can beat you drinking or running. Now everybody knows Flash Perkins never turned down a dare in his life.
He'll take you up in a second. You and he'll walk into the Saloon here and call for raw whiskey, the barkeep fills them up, and to the amazement of the crowd you drink with Perkins glass for glass.

—Don't forget, Johnny said, I'm a member of the Cold Water Army. I never touched a——

Brown eyes upcast, waving his cigar, Cash ignored the interruption.

—Meanwhile, I and some of the boys will have covered every Perkins bet we can get at odds of two to one. Come racetime, they'll carry Flash Perkins, the Pride of Raintree County, to the starting line, and you'll beat him all holler.

—Who'll carry
me
to the post? Johnny said. Besides, T. D. and Mamma would skin me alive if I did such a thing. I won't touch any alcoholic beverages.

—Who said anything about you touching any alcoholic beverages? Cash said. Suppose that the bartender pours colored water in your glass and straight stuff in Perkins'.

—He'd never do it.

—He
might
do it, Cash said, before he'd lose his job. If the Boss asked him to, he might.

—The Boss?

—I don't want it generly known, John, Cash said, tipping his ash, so keep it under your hat. But I own this joint now.

Johnny argued with Cash about it, but Cash pointed out that T. D. wouldn't have any kick coming if Johnny touched nothing but colored water, and it would be all in favor of the temperance movement if Flash beat himself by drink.

—Serve him right, Cash said. We'll take some of our winnings and put them into the next temperance drive.

Garwood Jones, who also had an appointment at the Photographer's, joined the two in front of the Saloon. He had just come from the barber's and stood a moment glancing at himself in the plateglass. Pleased, he opened his coat, extracted a cigar, and put a foot up on the low windowsill.

—Well, boys, he said, did you see it go by?

He put the cigar in his face. His handsome blue eyes crossed slightly as he touched matchflame to tip. He puffed, laughed gently. His hair was black and wavy. He palped his newly razored faceskin,
soft like a baby's. His shoulders were bulky and sleek in his dandy coat. He exhaled fragrance of face lotion and hair oil, aroma of success. He reminded Johnny of a well-groomed prize bull.

—What a lovely pair!

Garwood's voice was deep, and he had a manner of speaking slowly so that every word told.

Professor Jerusalem Webster Stiles crossed the street and joined the group in front of the Saloon.

—Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope the subject under discussion is sufficiently elevated to engage my interest.

—The Perfessor knows her too, Garwood said.

—Are you referring, the Perfessor said, to our charming little visitor from below the Mason and Dixon Line?

—She just went by the barber shop while I was in the chair, Garwood said. Boy, what a dream!

—Do you think your tone is strictly avuncular? the Perfessor said.

—What's it all about? Johnny said. Let us country boys in on it too.

—We have a new girl in town, the Perfessor said, affecting a stagey Southern accent, from the great and gran' old state of Lou'siana—Noo Orleans, Lou'siana, that is. Son, have you evuh visited in Dixie? Well, Ah'm heah to tail you, son, thet those accustomed tew the pinchin' and penurious weathuh of the Nawth cannot possibly
im
agine, until they have experienced it, the softness and fragrance of the Southuhn air. Below the Mason and Dixon Lahn, one passes impercetibluh into anothuh——

The Perfessor broke off and resumed in his normal voice.

—The new girl has already been closely scrutinized by the local experts and pronounced a very passable specimen of her sex. Just ask Uncle Garwood here, whose protective arm has so far guarded her against all contact with the raucous elements of the County.

—I'm not her uncle, Garwood said. Just a relative of a relative of hers. When I made that trip to New Orleans recently, I met Susanna, and since some of her relatives call me Uncle, goddamned if she didn't start calling me Uncle too just for a joke.

—Susanna who?

—Susanna Drake, Garwood said.

—Where'd she get all the money? Cash asked.

Apparently Cash knew about her too. Only Johnny Shawnessy was unaware of this exciting new arrival in Raintree County.

—The money, as I understand it, Garwood said, is an independent income which she has received ever since she was a kid and orphaned. Her folks had a big plantation near New Orleans, owned a lot of land and niggers. She was an only child and inherited a pile when they died. Her father's sister came here to Freehaven and built. She brought Susanna with her. Then Susanna grew up a little and went back South and stayed there. But when Auntie died last year, the house became Susanna's. It stayed empty for a while, but now Susanna turns up—just why I don't know.

—By herself? the Perfessor said.

—Couple of nigger girls with her, Garwood said. But I'm surprised at you asking
me,
Perfessor.
You
ought to know all about her.

The Perfessor laughed soundlessly and smoothed his already glueslick hair with sidelong glance in the plateglass.

—The boys are referring to a little fatherly conversation that I had with the young lady last Saturday.

—Fatherly, hell! Garwood said. A bunch of us went on a swimming party to Lake Paradise and took the Perfessor along for a chaperon. Goddamned if he and Susanna didn't disappear for hours.

—Marvellous swimmer, that girl, the Perfessor said.

—What's she look like? Johnny asked.

—Well, Garwood said, studying his cigar, I sure would like to put
my
head between 'em.

—Don't be crude, Uncle, the Perfessor said. But they are lovely.

—Wish she wouldn't cover 'em up so with those highnecked dresses, Garwood said. It seems a shame to have all that beauty blush unseen. She has jet black hair, John, big round eyes, olive complexion without a blemish——

—You'd be surprised, though, the Perfessor said.

—O, Garwood said, I suppose she showed you her birthmarks and everything on that swim.

The Perfessor tipped his ash with an appraising eye.

—It's a shame, he said. I hate to tell you, boys, but she has a large scarlet scar on her beautiful left breast. It starts right here—

He drew a line with his finger across his skinny chest.

—And it ends right here.

He ended up complacently scratching his left nipple.

Garwood watched through smilingly skeptic eyes.

—What's the diameter of her navel?

The Perfessor contemplated his cigar.

—There is no excellent beauty,
gentlemen, he said,
that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.

—She isn't as fast as she acts, Cash said. Rob Peters, that has the big gray and the new spring buggy, took her over to Middletown two nights ago, and when he took her home, he tried to get fresh with her, and she slapped his hat off. He said he never saw anything like her to lead a man on and then give 'im the back of her hand.

—It might interest you guys to know, Garwood said, that it's Uncle Garwood who's taking her to the Decoration Day Program next week.

Garwood paid a sly glance to himself in the plateglass mirror and caressed his backward-flowing mane.

—Boys, he said, that little lady is a fast filly, a high-steppin' little thoroughbred, and Uncle Garwood is just the boy that can ride 'em. You fellas wouldn't believe it if I told you the truth about her. I heard some stories about her down in New Orleans that'd make this County stand up and take note. I'm telling you right now, boys, we're kinda slow stuff around here compared to the set she's been——

—Here's the boy now!

A hoarse, high voice stung Johnny like a slap in the face. Advancing up the street, the first of a throng, came Flash Perkins, Raintree County's greatest athlete.

By this time whenever Flash Perkins walked through the Square, small boys followed at a reverent distance pointing. He was generally in the middle of a gang of secondrate imitators who enjoyed moving in the reflected glory of the man who could outrun, outdrink, outfight, outlove, and outcuss any other man in the County.