Raymer didn’t even know what it was. It appeared to be a sort of flattened-out concrete lion. Its paws were outstretched, and its eyes looked crossed or rolled back in its head. It looked like an animal on which something had fallen from an enormous height, flattening its back and leaving a rectangular cavity.
What the hell is it?
It’s a homemade planter, of course. It was my wife’s. It’s all I’ve got left after fifty years of marriage, all I have to remember her by.
Raymer gazed at the sorry-looking thing. It seemed precious little to have salvaged from fifty years of marriage, but he guessed it was more than he had.
What color you want it? Paint won’t stay on that concrete anyway, not out here in the weather.
I ain’t worried about the weather — that thing’ll be on this porch longer than I will. Paint it red, brighten things up around here.
While Raymer painted it red, the old man told him a tale.
I was watchin the way you get around on that ladder, he began. You ain’t got no fear of heights. That ladder must run out forty foot, and you never make a misstep. Course it wouldn’t take but one, and that’d be all of you. I was thinkin about them bluffs down on the Tennessee River. Down there below Clifton. I bet a young man like you wouldn’t have no trouble climbin up to some caves I know of on them bluffs.
Raymer was barely listening. While he was painting the lion, he was replaying a loop of tape in his head of Corrie telling him about the emptiness in her life. What’s the matter? he had asked, but whatever was the matter was so evasive and intangible that it couldn’t be pinned down with a word. No word was precise or subtle enough to explain it. We never have enough money, but it’s not really aBout money, she had said. He had dropped out of college so that Corrie could finish nursing school. She had dropped out of his life, and the bottom had dropped out of everything. My life is empty, she said, before she packed her bags and rented an apartment in Maury County. He didn’t know what kind of emptiness, or what had been removed to cause it, but the space must have been sizable, because she had found a six-foot-four guitarist in a country band to fill it. The guitarist’s name was Robbie, and he had a wild mane of curly red hair and a predatory, foxlike face.
Hell, he’s not even good-looking, Raymer had told her. He looks like a goddamned fox.
Like a what?
Like a fox. A red fox. That sharp nose, all that red fur. Hair. Hell, I’m better-looking than he is.
You’re very good-looking, Buddy. You’re a lot better-looking than he is — but life’s not always about looks, is it?
You a married man? Mayfield asked.
She quit me, Raymer said, putting the finishing touches on the lion.
I bet ten thousand dollars would put things in a whole other light, Mayfield said.
It wasn’t really about money.
It’s never about money, but still, a few thousand dollars would fix a lot of things right up. Smooth things over, round off a lot of sharp corners. She got another man?
Raymer was growing uncomfortable talking about it. Thinking about it. Not until after she left, he said carefully.
I bet she had him picked out beforehand, though.
Raymer laid the brush aside. You do? What the hell do you know about it? What is it to you anyway?
I know I’m seventy-five years old, and I ain’t went through life blindfolded. I know you’re pretty down in the mouth, and I know there’s nearly twenty thousand dollars in that cave I was tellin you about. I put it there myself, a long time ago. You can’t even get to it from the top, from the bluff side. You got to get up to it from the river. A little over nineteen thousand dollars, to be exact.
A little over nineteen thousand is not exact, Raymer said.
Nineteen thousand seven hundred something, then, Mayfield said. At that time Alabama was dry for beer. Dry as a chip. I lived right across the state line then. I had two coolers on my back porch and didn’t sell nothin but tallboy Bud. Sunday afternoons in the summertime you could stand in my front yard and look up the highway and the line of cars windin around my house looked like it went on forever. You’d wonder where all them cars come from. Where they went. I had a beer truck comin from Tennessee twice a week. I was payin off everybody from county judges to dogcatchers, and still I was hooked up to a money machine. I didn’t drink, like most bootleggers. I didn’t gamble. What was I goin to do with all that money? Put it in the bank? Mail it to the IRS? I was makin money faster than I could spend it, and I was never a slacker when it come to spendin money. We had a daughter in a finishin school in Atlanta, Georgia, and we was drivin matchin Lincoln Continentals. I was accumulatin it in fruit jars, paper sacks. The money kept growin all the time.
Why didn’t you just bury it? Raymer asked, as if he believed any of this.
I did, but folks was always slippin around and tryin to dig it up. They took to watchin me in shifts. They knew I had money. I had to get it somewheres nobody prowled around. I was thinkin in terms of a sort of retirement fund. Then I come in this part of the country and found that cave. You can barely see it from the river, much less get into it. Nobody had been in there in a hell of a time. Some skeletons were in there, and old guns. Swords. I’ve got one of them I’ll show you. It was a old Civil War cave.
Let’s see it, Raymer said, interested in spite of himself.
The sword was wrapped in what looked like an old tablecloth. The old man unfolded the oilcloth and held up the sword for Raymer to see. Raymer was expecting something polished and lethal, but the steel had a dull patina of time, and it seemed to draw light into itself instead of reflecting it.
It’s one of them old CSA officer’s swords, ain’t it? the man said.
I really wouldn’t know one from a meat cleaver, but I guess it is if you say it is. It’s certainly some kind of sword. What else was in there?
Belt buckles. Rusty guns. Bones, like I said. Further back there was different kinds of bones, arrowheads, and clay pots. That place was old. I ain’t no zoologist or nothin, but them was Indian bones.
Hellfire, Raymer said. I thought you needed someplace nobody knew about. It sounds like folks were just tripping over each other to get into your cave. It must have been the Grand Central Station of caves.
The old man took the sword back and folded its shroud around it. Nobody’s interested in that kind of stuff anymore, he said. Everybody’s forgot about it. When I was in there, I guess I was the first in seventy-five years. Nobody’s been there since — I’d bet on it.
If you left nineteen thousand dollars in there, you bet pretty high, Raymer observed. I thought you said you didn’t gamble.
Mayfield had not yet turned on the lights in his living room, and behind him the door loomed dark and silent. Raymer thought of his own still house, where he must go.
I’ve got to get on, he said. What happened to your nose?
I had plastic surgery. I wanted it this way. I picked this nose out of a book.
Were you in an accident?
No, he did it on purpose. I was in a beer joint over on the Wayne County line. Goblin’s Knob. This big farmer off of Beech Creek set on me and held me down and cut the end off of it with a pocketknife.
Jesus Christ.
No, he was a Pulley. He disappeared right after that. Nobody ever knew what became of him. I believe he’s in a dry cistern with his throat cut and rocks piled down on him. What do you think?
I think I can feel you pulling on my leg again.
Maybe. Maybe not.
SIX WEEKS AFTER she left, he had seen her in a mall, coming out of a JCPenney. She had had her hair shorn away and what was left dyed a glossy black. She was slim and graceful, and she looked like the willowy child he had grown up with. He walked along beside her. Standing by a wishing pool where coins gleamed from the depths, and with a brick wall hard against her back, he kissed her mouth until she twisted her face away. Let me alone, she said. What are you trying to do?