They received a letter, finally, from Newton, who was not too far from them, eight hours away in Mississippi. He was superintendent of a boys’ “training school” and taught English. The school had a storm-wire fence around it, barbed wire on top, armed guards, and dogs for both dope and pursuit at the ready. Tough cases went there. Sometimes they escaped out to the county and beyond to create hell. Parents had given up, courts had thrown in the towel and placed them here, the last resort. Occasionally there were killings, knifings, breakages; and constant sodomy. A good many of the boys were simply in “training” to be lifelong convicts, of course. Much of their conversation was earnest comparison of penal situations in exotic places, their benefits and liabilities. Many boys were planning their careers from one joint to another as they aged, actually setting up retirement plans in the better prisons they considered beds of roses. A good half of them never wanted outside again. The clientele was interracial, international and a bane to the county, which was always crying out for more protection and harsher penitence. Newt wrote that he had to whip boys and knock them down sometimes, but that “a calm voice turneth away anger,” and he was diligently practicing his calmness. He was married yet again. His wife was pregnant. She was plain and tall, a Mennonite and recovering heroin addict, healthy and doing very well. This love was honest and not dreamy. Newt apologized for much and sent over twelve poems.
They were extraordinary, going places glad and hellish he’d never approached before.
Ross cried tears of gratitude. His hands shook as he reread the poems: such true hard-won love, such precise vision, such sane accuracy — a sanity so calm it was beyond what most men called sanity. He raised his face and looked over Dauphin Island to the west, taken. Nabby trembled the entire day, delirious and already planning Christmas three months ahead. Newt was bringing his wife over to meet them and visit a week, if they would have him. He invited Ross to visit him at the school as soon as he could get over. His voice on the phone when Ross called seemed a miracle of quiet strength. He made long, patient sentences such as Ross had never heard from him before. Ross would leave that night.
His brand-new navy blue Riviera sat in the shell drive. It was a sweet corsair, meant for a great mission: nothing better than the health and love of the prodigal son. Bring out the horns and tambourines. Poor Ann. There was no competition. All she was now was nice, poor Ann. He wanted to pick up his wealth in one gesture and dump it on Newton.
Outside Raymond, Mississippi, he pushed the hot nose of his chariot into a warm midmorning full of nits, mosquitoes, gnats and flying beetles. His windshield was a mess. Ross was going silly. He felt for the bugs and their colonies. Almost Schweitzer was he, hair snowier, fond, fond of all that crept and flogged.
They were very stern at the gate, sincere cannons on their hips, thorough check of the interior, slow suspicious drawls rolled out of the lard they ate to get here. While they repeated the cautions three or four times — about stopping the car (don’t) and watching his wallet (“hard eye if I’s yoo”) and staying some lengths away from everybody, they acted as if Newt were a great creature on the hill (“Mister Ross he fonk nare boot cup, nard”).
Ross had not been searched thoroughly since the war, when at the hospital they feared briefly for his suicide, and in a strange way he felt flattered by these crackers taking the time around his own domain. Only when he was driving up to Newt’s house did he go cold, as splashed with alcohol. They’d missed the air rifle, which he had forgotten was there. Then he fell back, silly. It was an air rifle only. There would have been no trouble, only shy explanation about its presence and the snap compartment, where there should have been, if he were mature he supposed, a sawed-off pump for danger on the road. The times they were a-changing, all the merciless ghouls prowling for you out there, no problem. A shotgun would be easier to explain than a Daisy. Over here was the home of the peacemakers racked across the rear windshield, handy to the driver. Could always be a fawn or doe out of season to shoot, Roy Bob. Over here they considered anybody not in the training school fair gubernatorial timber.
So this was Newt’s new job, new home, new Newt. He’d not said how long he’d been here. A job like this, wouldn’t it take a while to qualify? But this was the Magnolia State. He’d probably beaten out somebody who’d killed only two people, his mother and father; little spot on his résumé.
Some boys were walking around freely, gawking at his car. This must be how a woman felt, men “undressing her with their eyes,” as that Ohio tub of guts might “inscribe.” Those kids would probably tear this car down in fifteen minutes. My God, they had skill-shops here to give them their degrees in it. Ross noticed that almost every boy, whether gaunt or swaybacked, chubby or delicate, had on expensive high-top sneakers. Crack and high-tops were probably the school mascots. But he saw more security men than boys outside. He’d glanced at the Rules for Visitors booklet: no sunglasses, no overcoats, no mingling with the student body. Do not give cigarettes or lighters if requested. Your auto was not supposed to have a smoked glass windshield or windows, but they had let him through because he was the father of “Mister Ross.”
At Newt’s WPA-constructed house, like the house of a ranger in a state park — boards and fieldstone — Ross hugged his son at the door, getting a timid but then longer hug back. His wife was still getting ready. They had just finished a late-morning breakfast. There had been trouble last night. Three boys cut the wire and escaped, APBs were issued, the dogs went out, and they were brought back before they even reached Raymond, where they were going to set fire to something.
Ross was thinking about the appearance of Newt’s pregnant wife. Why had he thought it necessary to describe her as “plain” in his letter, even if she was? It was something too deliberate, if you worried the matter. Revenge? Against Ivy, his first wife, his mother? Ross’s handsome world scorned? He hoped not.
She, Dianne, was very tall, taller than Newt by three inches and close to Ross’s height. She sat at the dining room table, very long and big-stomached, about seven months along. Her father had run this place before Newton. He was retiring and Newton, well, was right there, ready, willing, able — and with (she placed her hand over Newton’s at the salt and pepper shakers) the touch of the poet.
Ross did not want to ask his boy the wrong questions and run him away. He was gingerly courteous — to the point of shallowness, he realized, and hated this. It made him feel weak and bullied and this couldn’t go on long. But Newt was forthright.
“Not just the broken ribs over at the reservoir, Dad. I was saying my thing at Tishomingo, on the boat dock, and her” (he smiled over at Dianne, who looked fine although a bit gawky — old romantic history a-kindling) “boyfriend, this tattooed, ponytailed ‘ice’ addict, stabbed me with a knife right in the heart.”
“You’re not telling me—”
“Right in the heart. But Dianne knew, she was once a nurse and still will be when she gets her license back. She wouldn’t let me or anybody pull it out. The knife itself was like a stopper on the blood.”
“That’s true,” said Dianne. “He went all the way to the hospital with it still in him and you could see it pumping up and down with Newton’s heart. They helicoptered him to Memphis.”