Red Sky at Morning (28 page)

We bought a copy of
The Conquistador
on the Plaza, before we separated. The Russians were on the outskirts of Berlin; there was no word on Hitler. "He's probably up there on a mountain peak in Birches Garden, or whatever they call it, making a speech to the mountain goats," Steenie mused.

"When they catch him," Marcia said, "they ought to turn him over to the chief rabbi and let him perform a big public circumcision, using the top off a sardine can. I think the rabbi ought to get real drunk first, so his hand shakes."

"Well, the war hasn't changed everything," I said. "You're still the sweet little girl you always were. I'm surprised the dogs don't bark at you. They always bark at Frankenstein's monster and the Mummy."

"I just wish President Roosevelt were still around to see it, that's all," she said. His death had hit all of us hard, two weeks earlier, and we were still trying to get used to the sound of "Jesus H. Truman Christ," which didn't seem to have the right ring to it. "Why don't you two lunks join something, and make me proud of you? You're both old enough. If the Germans are shot, there's still the Japanese."

"I've got this low back pain," Steenie said, "in the region of the sacrum, which has been bothering me for years. I threw it out in Commando training, I think. There's nothing for me in the Army. I'm 4-F."

"Not me," I said. "I'm joining up. The Coast Guard. Shallow-draft boats for me; something a torpedo will go
under,
not into. Of course, I'd like to get a B.A., and maybe a little work toward my Ph.D., before I enlist. There's no place for the unskilled in the modern Coast Guard."

"As soon as the war in Europe is over, I'm going to give myself to the first man in uniform I see," Marcia said. "It'll be my personal contribution to the war effort, a generous, Christian act."

"You'd better put on a few inches up here," Steenie cautioned her. "Those guys in France and Italy might have gotten a little choosy."

"A lot of them are going to come back with some interesting diseases," I told her. I stroked my hair back with the heel of my hand. "Hunner' per cent. Ludwig van Beethoven."

"They can cure that now," Steenie said. "My father told me all about it; some sort of distilled bread mold. Takes three days."

"Have they got a cure for Creeping Crud or Singapore Foot yet? I hear that's pretty common, too. Ninety-three point six per cent of all corporals between eighteen and forty-two have it, I read somewhere. Your fingernails turn to cellophane, and these green lumps break out all over your. . . ."

"Can't scare me," Marcia said.

Steenie left us, and I walked Marcia home. It was pleasant to walk with the snow melted, and we held hands and scuffed our shoes on the clay sidewalks, doing a lot of pointed inhaling to sniff the first scents of spring, which were largely imaginary.

"I'm going to Barnard, I think," she said as we reached the rectory. "My mother went there. I'm scared to death. I'm so stupid, and it'll break my poor father."

"You'll do fine," I said. "You've already got a head start on the New York girls in categories like blunt talk and dirty words."

"Are you really going to Harvard? I don't think anybody from De Crispin has ever gone to Harvard."

"That's always been a pitiful little dream of my mother's," I said. "It's more likely that I'll go to the University of Alabama. It's more my speed. They have forty fraternity houses and one classroom, where they teach the History of the Confederacy. They have a good record, though. They haven't been guilty of education since eighteen thirty-one."

"Well, where do you
want
to go? Don't you care?"

"Barnard's part of Columbia, isn't it?"

"That's right."

"I want to go to Columbia."

Marcia puckered up like a little girl, and kissed me on the cheek. "Herbie Abernathy," she said, "I think you're the nicest boy on our whole block." Then she ran inside.

Amadeo met me at the door when I got home, and gripped me on the arm. "Come in, boy," he said. "Come in. We got bad news." Excilda was screaming and crying in the kitchen. Jimbob was on the telephone, yelling over a bad connection. My mother was in the living room, sitting stiffly, unnaturally, in a soft chair, her hands covering her ears, her eyes closed. The telegram, that goddamn telegram that turns up in all the war movies, was lying on the coffee table.

Dr. Temple gave her a shot of something a few hours later, and when she slumped over we carried her to bed. "Come to see me in a day or two," he said to me. "There's something the matter here, I think." I told Amadeo and Excilda to go home; there was nothing they could do. When they had left, Jimbob came to me and put his hand, in manly fashion, on my shoulder, and said, "I lost my father, too. I know how you feel."

"One favor," I said. "Just one favor. Please." I found a five and a one in my billfold, and gave it to him. "Spend tonight at La Posta Hotel, will you? If this isn't enough, you can charge it to Dad's account"

I telephoned Marcia and Steenie, and told them.

Then, making sure that my mother was still asleep, I walked down to Romeo's, and told him, too. He hugged me, and said, "Oh, shit. Always the best. Every goddamn time." Gwendolyn gave me a cup of coffee, and I walked home again.

When she awakened, late the next afternoon, my mother put her hands over her ears again and didn't move. I discovered she hadn't bothered to get up to go to the bathroom, so I called Dr. Temple again. I signed something he gave to me, and he and a nurse helped her to an ambulance. "This is a very strange arrangement," he said. "Please come to my office in a few days. Call me at any time. Don't worry about Tsigmoont; he's not answering the telephone any more." Mr. Gunther came; I showed him what I'd signed, and he said it was all right. Just temporary. Paolo Bertucci telephoned from Mobile.

"God, Josh. God, I'm sorry. Jesus, why did it have to be him?"

"I don't know, Mr. Bertucci. It just was."

"Everything's all right down here at the plant. We're closed today, in . . . memory. Goddammit. The war's almost
over,
for Christ's sake. What was it, do you know?"

"The telegram said a mine. It didn't say where."

"Goddamn filthy bastards. Jesus, I hope it was a German mine, not an Italian mine. I'm going to change my goddamn name." He told me some more about the plant. "Lawyers all over the goddamn place," he went on. "Little guys from the War Production Board scurrying around, looking worried. Hell, we're not going to miss a beat. Listen, who the hell is James R. Buel?"

"He's, ah, a family friend. Why?"

"The guy called me yesterday. Said he was calling from your house out there. Is that right?"

"Yes, he's staying here."

"Well, he told me about your father. Then he started asking me a lot of dumb questions about money. Aren't you and your mother getting the check every month?"

"Yes, sir, as far as I know. Five hundred a month, isn't that it?"

"Yeah, Well, this idiot seemed like he was awful worried it was going to stop. I mean, why the hell should it stop? And what the hell does he care? I was so goddamn upset by what he told me, about Frank, I don't know what the hell I said to him. I think I told him to go screw himself. Was that all right?"

"Yes, sir. That would have been the right thing to say."

"Yeah, well. Okay. Look, are you and your mother coming down? I don't know what Frank's will says, but you're probably joint owners of a shipyard. I mean, I can run the son of a bitch all right, but we got to have a board meeting pretty soon."

"Mother's in the hospital, Mr. Bertucci. She took the news very hard. Why don't you just go ahead and have the board meeting without us?"

"Your mother. Christ almighty! I'm sorry, Josh. Well, hell, I'll just go ahead and be acting president like before until the lawyers tell me what to do. You take care of yourself, for Christ's sake. This goddamn war."

"Mr. Bertucci, can you send me some money?"

"Some money? Hell, yes. I'm up to my ass in things I can do. How much do you need?"

"I don't know. There's some things I might have to do, and I'll need some money. How about . . ." I mentioned the biggest amount I could think of. ". . . two thousand dollars?"

"I'll get a check off to you. Stay loose up there, Josh. Jesus, I'm so sorry."

I didn't go back to school. They sent me a note, saying I wouldn't graduate with the Class of 1945, and I sent the School Board a note saying I was sorry. Mr. Gunther telephoned me the next day, and said, "I got your note, Joshua. I'm president of the School Board."

"I didn't know that," I said. "I'm still sorry."

"We discussed it this morning. You have excellent grades, and in the opinion of the faculty you have exercised a beneficial moral influence on the student body."

"I think they're talking about somebody else."

"Be that as it may," he continued, "we'll award the diploma anyway. One of your teachers was at the meeting, and spoke
very
forcefully in your behalf. A Mrs. Loughran. I, ah, did the same, I may as well admit. Could you come to my office? Right now?"

Jimbob Buel was in the office when I got there; he hadn't been back to the house since the night we got the telegram. He looked fit, the son of a bitch.

"Mr. Buel," Gunther began, "has made what I consider to be an extremely arresting offer. An offer, I may say, that is fraught with. . . ."

"Your mother's very sick, Joshua." Jimbob said. "Broken up. She's going to need care. She's a very sensitive little lady, your mother."

"Mr. Buel seems to be correct. I've talked to Dr. Temple at some length. She appears to be quite ill, a sort of breakdown, caused no doubt by grief and worry."

"No doubt," Jimbob said.

"Mr. Buel, who has, he assures me, your best interest in mind, has suggested that he be named your guardian since your mother is, for all practical purposes, not available at the present time to act in a parental capacity."

I glanced over at Jimbob. He looked composed and elegant in his old Virginia tweeds, and his expression would have been almost pious if he hadn't been licking his lips.

"Do I
have
to have a guardian?"

"No," Gunther said. "No, you don't. There hasn't been probate of your father's will yet—I spoke to his attorney in Mobile this morning before the School Board meeting—but as of now, you are the only member of the family with any capacity for executive action. You are . . . seventeen?"

"Yes, sir. I'll be eighteen next month."

"Do you remember our previous talk, about the document your father sent you? I discussed emancipation."

"I remember."

"We can arrange for a partial emancipation with no trouble whatsoever. You will lose your minority status in certain matters, and there will be no need for a guardian. The court and I can guide you with respect to legal questions."

"That boy needs an adult hand," Jimbob said. "I'd be ashamed to face his dear mother if I allowed . . . Mr. Gunther, as an intimate friend of Francis and Ann Arnold, as their oldest friend. . . ."

"My father hated your guts, Mr. Buel. No, that isn't true. He thought you were some kind of butterfly. I think he even felt sorry for you. You've been mooching off him for almost a year, now. Why don't you go see those people in Wisconsin and mooch off them for a while?"

"That's a lie. That's nothing but a hideous and childish lie. Mr. Gunther, I implore you. To think. To think of letting the future of an important Southern shipyard get into the hands of a boy!"

"Ah," said Mr. Gunther. "Ah, yes. The shipyard. I'm so glad you brought that up. What's it worth, do you suppose, Mr. Buel?"

Jimbob didn't hesitate. "Why, I'm sure that shipyard could liquidate right now for three million seven."

"Joshua," Gunther said. "I have the necessary papers right here, and Judge Chavez said he'd be in chambers until three. Of course, you still won't be able to vote, or consume beverage alcohol, but. . . ."

As we walked across the street to the courthouse, he said, "You know, your father once told me I was a pompous horse's ass. Well, perhaps I am, but I still know how to have fun, and this has been fun. Who is that man, really?"

"He's a friend of the family's. He really is. I've known him all my life."

"I'll never understand the South," Mr. Gunther said.

Amalie Ledoux took the train to Albuquerque and the bus to Sagrado. She had all the papers ready; I signed them with my new emancipated signature, and immediately things seemed a lot less complicated.

"I'll get you a good price for it, Josh," she said, "but I don't see how you and Ann can bear to part with that old house."

"Amalie, there's nothing in that old house I like except a bathtub with gold lion's feet."

She went to the hospital to see my mother and cried a little when she came back. "She doesn't seem quite
right,
if you know what I mean, but she's sure not as bad as I thought. One thing she said was now that the war's over in Europe, Frank ought to be coming home pretty soon. I didn't know
what
to say to
that,
so I just kept my mouth shut for a change. Then she looked at me and said, 'No he isn't either, and who do I think I'm kidding?'"

"That's the sort of thing that makes Dr. Temple pleased with himself. He calls it 're-establishing contact with external data' or something. You know, it was her idea to sell the Mobile house and stay here. She said Mobile was too damp and dreary. If that isn't clear thinking, I don't know what is."

Amalie fixed herself a bourbon and poked around the house. She found it hard to believe it was made of mud.

"I guarantee it's mud," I said. "If you built one of these in Mobile it would melt in two weeks."

When she finished her drink, she said, "Show me around. I've never been in the West before. And the air! So clear!"

"Put on your walking shoes," I advised her. "Bring a jacket. We have a special tour for flatlanders and swamp rats."

Amadeo loaned me his pickup, and I drove her to the place Romeo Bonino had showed me. It was a cool, sweet-smelling afternoon. A spring rain had released all the spicy fragrances the ground had held during the winter, and the thin air was like perfume. "There it is," I said, when I stopped the truck. "Teta Peak, the thirteen thousand, three hundred and forty-second highest mountain in the world."