Southern Gods (5 page)

“Why’d you want to put that kind of music on a record? Don’t think anyone would want to buy it.”

Phelps sucked his teeth. “Well, you’re wrong about that. People would buy it. Maybe not in droves, but they’d buy it. Cause it’s powerful, son. It’s got that something. I watched you listening to it. It got to you.” He fanned his hands out, like a child framing the sky. “And someone who can write a song that powerful, well… maybe he’s got other songs… nicer songs.”

“Or maybe songs that aren’t so nice. But you’re right, it does got something, and it’s something I don’t want.”

Phelps guffawed, slapping Ingram on the shoulder. “But you’ll do the job anyway, won’t you, son?”

Chapter 3

“L
ook, Mommy! A barn
and
a tractor!” Franny cried, pointing out the car’s window.

Sarah looked at the farmlands on both sides of the highway. “Yes, baby. I see.”

Perched beside Sarah on the bench seat of the sedan, Franny smiled and watched the country rolling past her window. Dressed in a pink frock with white trim, hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head with a red bow, she kicked her legs aimlessly, her heels thumping on the car seat. She grinned at Sarah, eyes sparkling, and exclaimed at the passing animals and buildings as they drove.

Sarah sneaked glances at her daughter as she drove. Little Rock diminished behind them; before them lay Gethsemane, her family home. Little Rock was the only home Franny had ever known.

Sarah’s hand went to the bruise on the line of her cheek, the tenderness there. Luckily, it hadn’t discolored too much, just yellowed a bit and that was easily covered by concealer. He’d been dead drunk and insensible. When she refused his embrace, turning her face away from his gin-laced breath, he’d swung, his fist catching her on the chin, sending her reeling. She had hit the wall and sat down, hard, on her ass. He dragged her by the hair to the bed, but when he mounted her, he couldn’t get hard. The booze had finally unmanned him.

When he was sleeping, she went to the kitchen and stood there for a long time with a knife in her hand, looking at the ceiling. Finally, she shoved the knife back in the drawer and gathered up as many suitcases as she could find. By morning, she and Franny were packed.

He came down the stairs like he was in some war-torn European country, wary and tense. She was waiting for him. In measured tones, Sarah informed Jim that she was taking Franny home to Gethsemane, to the Big House, the house she grew up in, to help take care of her mother, dying of lupus and beginning to suffer from dementia.

There was no mention of the bruises on her face. She felt like a coward for not confronting him, but the only thing that kept her coherent was the thought of what Franny might think of her, of Jim, of herself.

Sarah’s eyes remained dry as she told him they were leaving, and Franny looked back and forth between her parents trying to discern what was actually being said. Jim cursed her, picked up his paper, and opened it with a pop. He remained sitting, and slowly drank his coffee as Sarah gathered up their bags, loaded Franny into the car, and drove away.

She couldn’t understand why their marriage took this sorry course; it seemed so wonderful and bright when he’d first come back from overseas—wounded, yes, but alive and the whole world celebrating victory. Sarah held that victory close to her heart and took ownership of it, as if it were her own. And in some ways it was her victory. She’d stayed chaste and worked at the local radio factory, assembling pieces of communications equipment, radios, receivers, speakers. There were always men wanting to sleep with her—and some she wanted in return—but she remained firmly and obviously married, as steadfast as Penelope. She’d written to her husband every day, filling her letters with happiness and the minutia of life at home, at the radio factory, ending each letter with a smear of lipstick and a spray of perfume.
At Jim’s homecoming there was happiness and love and warm nights spent sweating in bed, his body over hers, arms pinioning her to the mattress, waist to waist, and she’d never felt anything like it before. She’d loved that; his body, how he moved with such freedom on top of her. He inspired her, he changed her. She found she could discard the matronly inhibitions that the world—her society and relations—exacted upon her, and in the bedroom be free, free of thought and speech, everything distilled down to the slap of flesh on flesh, sweat pouring, lips finding lips.

But the war took its toll on Jim too, the silvery scars on his chest and legs, his nightmares and hollow-eyed days. And as those days passed, then the months, Jim’s drinking grew deeper and his work, running the printing company his father founded, made demands on him that became harder for both him and Sarah to bear—the lonely nights, the horrible aftermath mornings. When he was home, he drank, and demanded things of her she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do. Then one morning—Jim seething in his hangover, angry at her, angry at the world—Sarah stood up, bolted to the bathroom, and retched over the toilet. He looked simultaneously surprised and chagrined. For that day, he felt like a man again, now that the baby was testament to his virility. But the next night he didn’t come home until the early morning, stinking of gin and cigarettes. The baby saved Sarah. But nothing could save Jim.

From the moment she laid eyes on her daughter, Sarah marveled at the beauty that had come from her own body. When Sarah looked into the mirror, she saw tired eyes and a crooked nose, the scar on her eyelid and the gray at her temples.
Not so gray, and my figure is still good
. And Franny, now small for her age, had flaxen hair that was almost white, thin delicate features, slim forearms, and a long neck traced by bluish veins that ran to her temples—translucent and filled with so much light that it suffused her underneath her skin. Sarah felt as though she could see Fran’s insides, the hard skeleton framing the foam-like flesh, letting the light through. That child was her care and her heart.

“Look, Mommy, a cow!” Franny cried, and then, “We’re going to Mimi’s!” She had said that over and over. “Mimi’s!”

“Yes, baby. Mimi’s sick.”

“She’s turning into a wolf, daddy says, like in
Little Red Riding Hood
.”

Damn him
.

“No, baby, she’s not turning into a wolf. She’s just sick, and she’s been sick for a while. And the sickness Mimi’s got makes her skin look funny. We’re going to help her get better.”

They drove in silence until Franny said, “Ooh, look, Mommy! A cow and a dog!”

They left Little Rock that morning, and now, three hours later, they neared Gethsemane. Sarah pulled the sedan off Highway 31 and took the small dirt road through the orchard, the road lined with pecan trees littering the ground with their seed, the fields half obscured by the diagonal rows of trees.

They called the Rheinhart estate the Big House. The field hands and laborers who worked the land, ministered the tractors and ushered the grain into silos—to them all, it was the Big House. As Fran and Sarah approached the old beauty, with its high dormered windows, deep shadows among the galleries behind tall columns, the Big House stood half in darkness and half in the fierce light of noon.

How many summer afternoons did I spend on that porch? With Daddy and Baird and Uncle Gregor, books and lemonade and then boys and later Jim before he was sent off to the war? On that porch he courted me, and Daddy brought out the courting candle and set it to burn a long time because Jim was going into OCS.
But Jim was hours away now, surely drinking at his office or at the nearby bar, and tonight she wouldn’t have to sleep with Franny for fear of marital obligations or of strange midnight rants on the iniquities of men and women. The Big House was home, and Sarah felt welcomed and surrounded by it, driving down the pecan-lined lane.

Now closer, Sarah observed the decay of the old family estate, the scaling paint, the wisteria eating at a column on the front porch, crumbling the molding and slumping the porch downward.
That wasn’t there the last time I was here, but wisteria grows fast.

As the sedan rumbled up in the graveled drive, Alice came out the front door and waved, smiling big, her apron white against her dark skin. Sarah had known Alice as long as she had lived. When she was five, Sarah, laughing, gave Alice one of her china dolls, the Negro one from Germany that she’d received from Uncle Gregor that Christmas. With that act, she won Alice’s love and they became friends, the daughters of servant and landowner. They had grown up together under Alice’s mother’s watchful eye, until the day that Alice had grown old enough to assist her mother and Maggie needed to go home to Memphis to attend her parents.

Sarah exited the car. Alice ran down the steps, and they hugged fiercely, holding each other for a long while. Alice said, “Ooh, girl. It’s been too long since you been back. Come on inside, I’ve made your favorite. And who might this be?”

Alice broke from Sarah and turned toward the car; Fran stood frozen on the white gravel of the drive, a hesitant smile curling her lips.

“Alice, let me introduce you to my daughter, Franny.” Sarah nodded from woman to child and said, “And Franny, this here’s Alice, who I told you about.”

“Mommy says you talk in your sleep.”

The women laughed, and Alice said to her while looking at Sarah, “Only when your momma ain’t here to kick me. But, Lord, girl, are you fair.” Alice reached out and touched Franny’s shining hair. “Child, you look like you swallowed a hundred-watt bulb.” Alice squatted on her knees and whispered, mock theatrical, “Franny, can I tell you a secret?”

Franny nodded, her eyes big.

“There’s some kids hiding on that side of the house,” Alice said, flipping her head toward the corner. “And they’ve been waiting to show you the peafowl.”

Squeals and laughter came from the side of the house, children caught hiding. Then, with yelps and high-pitched whoops, two children rounded the corner of the old house and barreled toward the driveway, jumping and waving their arms. Franny ran to meet them, squealing too. When she neared the two older children, she stopped short, like a puppy encountering a larger, unfamiliar dog.

The girl put her hands on her hips proudly, while the boy did a nervous dance, hopping from one foot to the other.

“My name’s Fisk, and she’s—”

“Fool! I can introduce myself. My name’s—”

“Lenora,” Fisk said, beaming. “She’s my sister.”

“And he’s my idiot brother, Fisk.”

Fisk turned on his older sister. “It gonna be real funny when Fran watches me knock you on your butt.”

Lenora stepped away, and looked at Fisk, down her nose. “Yeah. Go on and try it, lil man. Fran here’ll be laughing when I put you on
your
back.”

Lenora raised a fist as though she was going to hit her brother in the face; Fisk stared at her, unblinking.

“You gonna do it?” he asked. Lenora turned away, shaking her head. Franny turned to glance at Sarah with a look that said, “What am I supposed to do here?”

The children, caught in a patch of sunlight, took turns shaking Franny’s small hand, grinning big. They matched, somehow, the dark-skinned brother and sister and the bright, luminous little girl.

Fisk jittered, moving left and right, hopping.

“We got some peafowl,” he said, sticking out his chest.

“We ain’t got no peafowl, Fisk. Her gramma do, and we just take care of ’em.”

“Well, there’s some peafowl here. You’re gonna love ’em, though don’t mess with the big boy, Ole Phemus. Only got one eye, and he’s meaner than the Devil.”

Franny asked, “Peafowl?”

“Yeah, you know. Peacocks? Big fan tail, all green and blue and pink. Come on, we’ll show you.”

Franny looked at her mother again. Sarah mouthed the word “go,” giving a shooing motion with her hands. The children dashed off, running back around the house, flapping arms, singing, laughing.

Alice called, “Stay by the Big House, y’all! And there’s a yellow jacket nest by the shed! Make sure Franny don’t get near them! You hear me Fisk? Lenora!”

Sarah followed Alice up onto the porch, into the house, walking through the quiet rooms, footfalls soft on the ancient weathered rugs. She’d heard those soft sounds a million times before but now they seemed new. She looked at her old home as if she’d never seen it before. And in a way, she hadn’t. There was a lot of water under that particular bridge.

Alice led Sarah into the kitchen and said, “Your momma’s having a bad day today. Chest hurting and short of breath. You can go up there in a little bit. First, come over here and let me look at you.”

Alice drew Sarah by her hands and turned her to face the light spilling into the kitchen from the window above the sink. “Girl, you look tired here.” Alice touched Sarah’s temple lightly. “And here.” Touched her heart, above her breast. “I see he’s been rough with you.” Her hand went to the bruise at Sarah’s cheek.

“Alice…” Sarah didn’t know what to say.

“All men unman themselves, eventually. They don’t even need us to help them. They’ll do it on their own. But when they’re limp, when they’re powerless, they’re the most dangerous.”

“Alice… I don’t—”

“Sssh. Don’t worry. He won’t ever touch you again. You’re home now, and I’m gonna take care of you, just like I always did. You’re my girl. Always was. Always will be.” Alice smiled, then hugged Sarah fiercely. Sarah remembered.