She hung a small silver bell on the poster of her spare bed, lowered the shades to soften the light and prepared a tray with bandages, alcohol, liniments and salves.
Then she turned down the ringer on her telephone, lettered a
“Do Not Disturb” sign for the door, warned the neighborhood children about noise and threatened two barking dogs.
Long acquainted with the cleansing powers of wild greens, she made pot liquor from poke, dock and lamb’s-quarters gathered from a nearby field, then squeezed a pitcherful of orange juice to cool in the fridge.
Late that afternoon, with Brother Junior driving her, she went to town. She bought Bui a pair of house shoes at the Mercantile, stopped by Sister Nadine’s to borrow a cane and went to the library where she checked out
The Practical Book of Health,
then stayed up half the night to read it.
The next morning she dug new potatoes from her garden and made a pan of potato soup, cut roses from her trellis and arranged them in a tall yellow vase, then swept off the welcome mat in front of her door.
Finally, she said a prayer asking God for guidance, put on a fresh white apron, then sat on her front porch swing to wait for Vena to deliver her patient.
When he came, she bundled him off to bed, and for the next week, she medicated, fed, washed and bandaged, worrying over every grimace and groan.
She applied cold compresses to drive down his fevers, held his head when twice he threw up, massaged sore muscles and aching joints to ease his pain, read to him when he was restless and hurried to his bedside to calm him when he cried out in his sleep.
Eight days later, when he finally emerged, he was fattened, shaved, bathed, free of infection—and regular.
But when Vena arrived to drive him back to the Honk, Galilee went into a fit of anxiety, checking and rechecking his splint and warning against drafts, spicy food, missteps and exertion.
She was still cataloging dangers as she helped settle him in the car. Just before she shut his door, she reminded Vena once again that he was to be returned to her in two hours, hinting that if he wasn’t, she might give the sheriff a call.
Then she stood in the street, waving until the car was out of sight.
*
On Bui’s first visit to the Honk, Molly O brought him a pillow to put at his back, Caney made him a special lunch of beef tips and noodles and Vena played “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma,” his favorite song, on the jukebox.
The regulars, alerted to his return, dropped by with gifts and cards, handshakes and hugs.
Life brought him a used book wrapped in brown paper,
Sex: The
Facts, The Acts, & Your Feelings,
but cautioned him not to open it until he was alone. Hooks gave him three pounds of filleted crappie, Wilma Driver presented him with a Century 21 key chain, and Soldier brought a jar of his wife’s strawberry jam. Quinton made him a present of a chess set he’d carved from pear wood, and Bilbo and Peg gave him a gift certificate for an oil change at the Grease-and-Go.
They stayed to kid him about the pretty nurses at the hospital and tell old jokes about nearsighted proctologists and bumbling gynecologists.
They laughed at Soldier’s story about eating a Vicks sandwich when he was eight, a futile attempt to cure strep throat in time to go to summer camp, and they roared at Bilbo’s account of a punishing bus trip to California only three days after he was circum-cised at the age of fifty-three.
They brought Bui up-to-date on Big Fib’s latest encounter with aliens, told him about the fire in the kitchen of the Dairy Queen and the newest graffiti scrawled on the city water tower: “A boy’s best friend is a chicken.”
But they didn’t mention the shooting, not one word, and when Wanda Sue stopped by, Caney pulled her aside to tell her he would poison her coffee if she even thought about bringing it up.
Bui managed to slip away from them once on the pretext of going to the bathroom, but Vena found him in the kitchen getting meat scraps for Spot and carrots for the gelding.
When he walked out the back door, the dog yipped and ran to meet him at the fence, more excited by his attention than the food he offered. Then, as he made his way across the pasture, the gelding caught his scent and came trotting toward him, the only signs of his wound a slight limp and a pink scab on the shin of an otherwise sound and sturdy leg.
When Galilee called, alarmed that Bui was five minutes late, the regulars, beginning to see signs of his tiring, said their good-byes and scattered, while Vena and Molly O gathered up his gifts and carried them out to the car.
But Bui held back, waiting until he had Caney alone.
“Mr. Chaney, I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why the man called Sam shoot to kill me with his gun?”
Caney, thrown off-guard, reached for a cigarette and matches, buying time before he answered.
“Well, Bui. Sam was, uh . . .”
“He shoot me because I Vietnamese?”
The question hung in the air like the smoke from Caney’s cigarettes until finally he said, “Yes,” but when he did, he had to look away.
“Man called Sam fight in Vietnam War?”
“No. He didn’t.”
“Mr. Chaney, you fight in Vietnam War, I think so.”
“I was there.”
“Then why you don’t shoot me?”
Caney was quiet for several moments, then he said, “I never could come up with a good reason.”
The two men locked eyes then as something unspoken passed between them . . . something that had started in another place, in another time . . . something that had forever linked them.
*
Bui stayed a little longer at the Honk each day until, by the end of the week, he was around for most of the afternoon. But with his strength returning, he began to feel bored and useless just sitting, so he started finding small jobs to do despite Molly O’s protests.
About the most he could manage with one good arm was to set up tables with silverware, refill tea and coffee and bus some tables, a few dishes at a time.
The dining room was usually full by noon because the fire at the Dairy Queen had shut it down temporarily; most of that business was coming to the Honk. And with school out, Vena had so much business outside, she was kept running from midmorning until closing time.
She was keeping up, but just barely. Occasional bouts of nausea were dragging her down, so that by early evening she had little energy left.
Caney was unaware that she sometimes disappeared for several minutes at a time, but he’d noticed that she looked tired and was often withdrawn and quiet.
She covered up by saying she might be a bit anemic, a problem she’d had from time to time. And when he saw her sipping a dark-colored liquid from a fruit jar she kept in the cooler, she explained that she’d gathered rattle-bush for tea, good for the blood, that would put her right in no time, though, in truth, the tea was to help her control morning sickness.
Even so, Caney decided she needed some help outside, especially with the hottest part of summer coming on, and though she said she could manage, he hired Quinton’s sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Kim, who was saving money to go to college to study art.
Kim started to work the next day, part-time, the same day Caney acquired a chef.
Bui had been trying for months to help out in the kitchen, but Caney had never let him do much beyond mangle some eggs and burn several loaves of bread.
But now Bui had the advantage of sympathy on his side. Who, after all, could refuse the simple request of a man with a broken body and damaged spirit?
When Caney finally caved in, Bui traded the pathetic expression he’d affected for a triumphant smile as he marched into the kitchen.
Molly O, refusing to allow him to lift anything heavier than a spoon, slid cast-iron skillets onto the burners, hauled pots filled with water to the stove, and rounded up bags and boxes from the pantry, meat and vegetables from the fridge.
When he was finally able to shoo her away, he went to work.
He had to substitute certain spices for those he didn’t have, and couldn’t cook all the dishes he wanted for lack of ingredients not available in the kitchen of the Honk.
Nevertheless, two hours later he presented what he had prepared, a Vietnamese feast of ginger beef, caysin pork, chicken sesame and shrimp fried rice.
Caney, knowing his was a steak and potato trade, figured most of the food would go to waste, but for Bui’s sake, he hauled out an old chalkboard and wrote at the top, “Saturday Night Special.
Asian Delight.”
When the dinner crowd began to arrive, they were reluctant to try it, preferring instead their chicken-fried steak and gravy, pork chops and fries, but out of deference to Bui, they said they’d give it a try.
When the food was set before them, bowls served family style, they pretended it was exactly what they’d expected, though they’d never seen the likes of it before.
Soldier was the first to put a forkful into his mouth while the others watched and waited for his reaction. They were silent while he chewed, then swallowed. But when he smiled with pleasure, they eyed each other and hesitantly reached for the nearest bowl.
Most took only small portions on their plates, then, at Bui’s urging, spooned on the sauces he’d prepared.
They didn’t say much as they fought to keep the thin, slippery noodles on their forks, stabbed at small chunks of spicy chicken, speared slivers of carrots and cucumbers, thrust at fluffy grains of rice and paper-thin slices of green onions, pierced juicy pink shrimps and beef seasoned with ginger.
Minutes later, their plates empty, they dug into second helpings as they licked at lips tingling with sharp, sweet tastes they’d never experienced before.
A half hour later, Caney erased the “Special” from the board.
The chef had run out of food.
Vena sat at an empty table in the corner of the room where she watched . . . watched the way Soldier hooked his thumb over the rim of his coffee cup when he raised it to his mouth and how Hooks squinted when he chewed on a toothpick . . . watched the way Bilbo tilted his head to blow his smoke away from Peg’s bluish face and how Wanda Sue pulled at her ear when she passed on her latest gossip . . . watched the way Bui bowed shyly to compliments and how Life looked at Molly O like a puppy waiting to be petted.
Watched the way Caney’s eyes, the color of spring willows, picked up the light as he studied her from across the room.
She watched, wanting to remember each face, each gesture, each smile, as she saw them for the last time.
And though she made no effort to rise, to push back from the table and pack her things, she knew she had already slipped away.
C
ANEY KNEW she was gone. Even in half-sleep he could feel the emptiness beside him, could feel that the bed had already lost her heat, that her pillow held only the hollow shaped by her head.
But until he opened his eyes, it would not be real.
She was still sleeping beside him, her bottom lip quivering with the exhale of her breath, her eyelids fluttering as she dreamed. He moved his
hand very slowly to run his fingers across the silky strands of her hair on
the pillow without her knowing.
Then she stretched in sleep, her toes curling, pointing like a diver going
into water, and the sheet across her chest slid below her breasts.
At rest again, her breathing slowed, and from deep inside her came a
sound like the purring of a cat.
Minutes later, she rolled toward him, her hand lightly grazing his skin
before she twisted her shoulders back and touched one finger to the hollow
of her throat.
Finally, she yawned, flicked her tongue across her lips, brushed a lock
of hair from her cheek as, slipping from sleep, she opened her eyes, saw him
watching her and smiled.
Then, without words, they reached for each other, their bodies coming together as the first copper ray of sun began to slide across the bed.
This morning, though, there was no shaft of sunlight, no purring breath, no shape to reach for.
*
She’d caught her first ride of the day at the Texaco station just after dawn with a gospel quartet from Little Rock. They took her as far as Waco, their destination, and let her off at a truck stop.
She hadn’t thought much about where she was headed, but almost any city would do. Abortion clinics didn’t fare well in smaller places, and she wasn’t about to face a line of angry protesters carrying pictures of mutilated fetuses or slink in the back door of some dingy doctor’s office like she’d done when she was a scared scrawny kid.
By the time the waitress brought her first cup of coffee, she’d decided on San Antonio, only a couple of hours down the road. She knew her way around there, might even be a couple of her old drinking buddies still hanging around, but she had no interest in finding out.
She didn’t have to wait long before a driver hauling cattle said he was going her way, but just the thought of smelling cow ma-nure for two hundred miles brought on a sudden wave of nausea, so she passed up the offer.
After a trip to the bathroom, she switched from coffee to tea, ate a few crackers and, feeling better, started asking around again for a ride.
She was anxious to get back on the road because when she’d been moving, she had outdistanced thoughts of Caney. But sitting still, he caught up with her.
Listen, the day I watched you climb out of that truck, I knew my life
was gonna change.
She got up quickly, grabbed a newspaper from the counter, then went back to her booth to read.
Hell, Vena. I don’t care what you’ve done. I didn’t know the person you
were . . . I only know who you are now.
After tossing some change on the table, she picked up her duffel bag and started outside. But before she reached the door, she hooked up with a trucker on his way to San Antonio by way of La Grange to pick up four hundred cases of beer at a brewery, so she found herself taking an unexpected detour, going south on 77 instead of the interstate.