Percival Everett
Big Picture: Stories
For Candida, whose first concern is always the work
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to express his gratitude to the editors of the following publications in which the stories below first appeared.
“Squeeze” was first published in Callaloo, Vol. 16, No. 3, 1993. “Throwing Earth” was first published in the Texas Review, Vol. XI, Nos. 3 & 4, 1990; and also in That’s What I Like About the South: Southern Short Fiction for the 1990s, Eds. George Garrett and Paul Ruffin, University of South Carolina Press, 1993. “Turned Out” (under the title “Bull Does Nothing”) was first published in Callaloo, Vol. 12, No. 1, 1989.
Cerulean
The front left wheel of the lawn mower looked like it was ready to fall off. The machine’s original blue was now rust red and brown and the writing on it that at one time had read WESTERN AUTO now said TERN AU. The wheel wobbled with a rhythmic squeak as the short man with the shaved spot on his head pushed the mower up the walk toward Gail and Michael. They were standing at their door, bags of groceries at their feet while Michael dug into his pockets for his keys. The man with the mower stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at them.
Michael looked at the man, then at Gail, then at his grass, which didn’t appear to be in great need of cutting.
The man raised five fingers and pointed to the yard.
“Five dollars?” Michael asked.
The man nodded, then rubbed his nose while he looked away.
Michael turned to Gail, who shrugged. Michael studied the man’s filthy jeans and his shirt, which appeared to be made of a fabric too heavy for the heat. “Okay,” he said. “Five bucks.”
The man didn’t say anything. He turned and walked to the edge of the yard and started pulling the cord of his machine’s little motor.
Michael found his keys and got the door open. Inside, he and Gail set the sacks on the counter.
“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Gail asked, putting the milk into the refrigerator.
“It’s five dollars,” Michael said.
“I don’t mean the money.”
Michael sat at the table and watched as Gail put away a few things. “I think it’s okay.” He paused to listen to the motor outside. “The grass doesn’t really need to be mowed, so what can he mess up?”
“I don’t mean that either,” Gail said. She opened a new bottle of cranberry juice and poured a glass. “What if he sees us as a soft touch?”
“We are a soft touch.” Michael stood and walked to the window. “It must be ninety degrees out there and he’s wearing a wool shirt.”
“He can take it off if he wants,” Gail said.
“Well, he’s not doing it. He’s sweating like crazy out there. What if he has a heat stroke while he’s working for us?” Michael considered that.
“What is it?” Gail asked.
“I’m going to give him one of my T-shirts.” He went upstairs and into their bedroom. He pulled a light blue shirt from the shelf in the closet. The letters UNC were faded. He took the shirt back to the kitchen. Gail was still putting food away.
“You’re not serious,” she said.
“If he keels over, we could be liable.”
Gail paused. “I suppose.”
“I’m going to ask him to change into this.” The sun was slicing into his back as Michael walked out the back door and across the yard toward the man. He waved to him when a few yards away. The man stopped pushing the mower and watched Michael approach. He didn’t turn off the machine. “I brought you this shirt,” Michael said loudly.
The man looked at it, but didn’t seem to understand.
Michael pointed to the man’s soaked wool garment and then held the T-shirt out to him. The man nodded and unbuttoned what he was wearing. He took it off, handed it to Michael, and took the T-shirt. The wool was indeed soaked and Michael felt uncomfortable holding it. The man pulled the light blue shirt over his head, his hair wet from perspiration, and down over his soft, glistening belly. He nodded a thank you and went back to pushing the machine. Michael walked back to the house, and draped the wet shirt over the railing of the steps. Inside, he walked to the sink and washed his hands.
Gail was peering out the window over the sink. “I see he put it on.”
Michael dried his hands with a couple of paper towels. “Yeah. He was sweating like a pig. It’s unbelievable out there.”
“He asked to do it,” Gail said. “Do you think he can’t talk?”
Michael shrugged. “You know, that’s a big job for only five dollars.”
“He’s the one who asked for it,” Gail said.
“Yeah, but it’s sweltering out there. It’ll take him a couple of hours. He’ll use a buck’s worth of gas at least. So, he’s doing it for four dollars.”
“Have you ever heard the term ‘bleeding heart?’”
“Tell me it doesn’t bother you,” Michael said.
“Of course it bothers me.” Gail sat at the table with him. “But I am glad you didn’t bring that shirt in here.”
“That’s something else that bothered me.” Michael leaned his head back and blew out a breath. “I was really uncomfortable handling that thing after he’d been wearing it.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Gail laughed. “It’s soaked with sweat and who knows what else.”
“I know, but still …”
A couple of hours went by and there was a knock at the door. Michael found the man standing there, his lawn mower at the bottom of the steps. He had his wool shirt back on, but it was not buttoned. His chest hair was shining with sweat and moisture sat in the cracks of his belly. He held the blue T-shirt by his side.
“All done?” Michael asked.
The man nodded.
Michael put his hand in his pocket. “Do you live around here?”
Another nod.
“Which way?”
He pointed up the streeet toward the busy avenue.
Michael handed the man his money. “Here’s ten dollars. It was a bigger job than I thought at first.”
The man looked at the ten, then fished a five out of his pocket and pushed it toward Michael.
“No, it’s all for you,” Michael said.
But the man shoved the five at him again. Michael felt obliged to take it and did. The man then handed Michael the sweaty, light blue T-shirt. Michael took it, and his fingers touched the slick, salty water from the man’s body. He closed his hand around it and looked at the yard.
“You did a fine job. Thank you.”
The man stepped back down the steps, grabbed the handle of his mower, and walked away up the street.
Michael closed the door and felt the air conditioner switch on and pump coolness at him from above. He went into the back room and put the UNC T-shirt on top of the washing machine. While he was standing at the kitchen sink lathering up his hands Gail came in.
“So, how much did you pay him?” she asked.
“Five dollars,” he said, tearing off a couple of towels from the roll.
“I’m impressed.”
“I tried to give him a ten, but he gave me change. Still didn’t say a word.”
“I wonder if he can hear,” Gail said.
“Don’t know.”
“I’ll bet he reads lips. And I’ll bet that’s how he can stand out there with that noisy machine for hours.”
“Possibly.”
“What’s wrong?” Gail asked.
“Nothing.” Michael opened the refrigerator and just stared inside. “It’s really hot out there. You think he has a place to live?”
“Who knows,” Gail said. “Hand me a diet cola.”