“I’m Baptist and DeMolay myself,” said Son Junior, twirling his keys glumly. He had not quite got the straight of it but did perceive that the subject of religion had come up.
“That’s not the point,” cried Jamie, in anguish again. “I’m not interested in either—”
Mr. Vaught, who couldn’t stay put anywhere for long and so made a regular tour of the house, shuttling back and forth between the pantry and the living room, where Mrs. Vaught and Myra Thigpen usually sat, happened at that moment to be circling the wall of the pantry.
“We all headed for the same place and I don’t think the good Lord cares how we get there,” he cried, shot his cuff, and went on his way.
“The Bible says call no man father,” said Lamar Thigpen sternly, looking around for the adversary.
Sutter, whom the engineer had not for one second lost sight of sighed and poured another glass of dark brown bourbon.
Jamie groaned and the engineer reflected that there were no clear issues any more. Arguments are spoiled. Clownishness always intervenes.
Rita waited until the Thigpens drifted away and then pulled the card players closer. “If you want to know what sets my teeth on edge and I strongly suspect Jamie here might be similarly affected”—she spoke in a low voice—“it is this infinitely dreary amalgam of Fundamentalism and racism.”
“No, no, no,” groaned Jamie loudly, actually holding his head. “What do I care about that. That’s not it.” He glared at Rita angrily, embarrassing the engineer, who was aware of Rita’s strong bid for low-pitched confidential talk and didn’t mind obliging her. “This is all irrelevant,” cried Jamie, looking behind him as if he was expecting someone. “I just don’t care about that.”
“What do you care about?” asked Rita after a moment
“It’s just that — I can’t explain.”
“Jamie wants to get away,” said the engineer. “He would like to spend some time in a new place and live a simple life without the old associations — such as, for example, parking the camper on a stretch of beach.”
“That is correct,” said Jamie instantly and soberly.
“Listen who’s telling me that,” said Rita. “What in the world have I been saying all summer?” She spoke to them earnestly. Why didn’t they finish the semester and join her in her house in Tesuque? Better still, she and Kitty could go now, since credit hours were more important to men than women — everyone made a fuss over Jamie’s credit hours — get the place ready and the two young men could join them later. “I’m calling your bluff, Tiger. You can kill two birds with one stone. You can have your new life and you can get out of the closed society at the same time.”
Jamie frowned irritably. He opened his mouth.
“Ah, that’s fine, Rita,” said the engineer. “That really sounds wonderful. But I think Jamie has in mind something right away, now, this minute.” He rose. “Jamie.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Kitty, smoothing down her sweater, taking a final peep at the two pins (to think she is mine! rejoiced the engineer, all her sweet cashmered self!). “Whoa now. Not so fast. I think yall are all crazy. I’m going to the game and I’m going to the dance and I’m going to school tomorrow morning.” She rose. “I’ll meet yall in the garage at six thirty.”
To the engineer’s surprise, Jamie made no protest. Something had mollified him. At any rate he said no more about leaving and presently rose wearily and invited the engineer to the apartment for a bedside game of gin rummy. It pleased him to play a single snug game, pull the beds together and direct a small disk of light upon the tray between them where the cards were stacked.
Son Junior and his father started their favorite argument about Big Ten versus Southeastern Conference football.
“The Big Ten on the whole is better,” said Son glumly. “You have your ten teams, one as good as any other.”
“Yes,” said Lamar, “but there are always two or three teams in the Southeast which could take any of them. And don’t you think the Big Ten doesn’t know it. I happen to know that both Alabama and Ole Miss have been trying for years to schedule Ohio State and Michigan. Nothing doing and I don’t blame them.”
At that moment Myra, Lamar’s wife, came into the pantry and the engineer was glad to have an excuse to leave. She would, he knew, do one of two things. Both were embarrassing. She would either quarrel with her husband or make up to Rita, whom she admired. It was a dread performance in either case, one from which, it is true, a certain amount of perverse skin-prickling pleasure could be taken, but not much.
Here she came toward Rita and as certain as certain could be she would make a fool of herself. Something about Rita made her lose her head. The night before, Kitty and Rita were talking, almost seriously, of going to Italy instead of New Mexico. Rita had lived once in Ferrara, she said, in a house where one of Lucrezia’s husbands was said to have been murdered. Oh yes, broke in Myra, she knew all about Lucrezia Bori, the woman who had started St. Bartholomew’s Massacre. And on and on she went with a mishmash about the Huguenots — her mother’s family were Huguenots from South Carolina, etc. She had not the means of stopping herself. The engineer lowered his eyes.
“Pardon me,” said Rita at last. “Who is it we are talking about? Lucrezia Bori, the opera singer, the Duchess of Ferrara, Lucrezia Borgia, or Catherine de’ Medici?”
“I too often get the two of them mixed up,” said the poor sweating engineer.
“But not the three,” said Rita.
Why did she have to be cruel, though? The engineer sat between the two, transfixed by a not altogether unpleasant horribleness. He couldn’t understand either woman: why one should so dutifully put her head on the block and why the other should so readily chop it off. And yet, could he be wrong or did he fancy that Rita despite her hostility felt an attraction for Myra? There was a voluptuousness about these nightly executions.
But tonight he wasn’t up to it and he left with Jamie. He was careful not to forget his book about General Kirby Smith’s surrender at Shreveport in 1865. He was tired of Lee’s sad fruitless victories and would as soon see the whole thing finished off for good.
The man walked up and down in the darkness of the water oaks, emerging now and then under the street light, which shed a weak yellow drizzle. The boy sat on the steps between the azaleas and watched. He always imagined he could see the individual quanta of light pulsing from the filament.
When the man came opposite the boy, the two might exchange a word; then the man would go his way, turn under the light, and come back and speak again.
“Father, you shouldn’t walk at night like this.”
“Why not, son?”
“Father, they said they were going to kill you.”
“They’re not going to kill me, son.”
The man walked. The youth listened to the music and the hum of the cottonseed-oil mill. A police car passed twice and stopped; the policeman talked briefly to the man under the street light. The man came back.
“Father, I know that the police said those people had sworn to kill you and that you should stay in the house.”
“They’re not going to kill me, son.”
“Father, I heard them on the phone. They said you loved niggers and helped the Jews and Catholics and betrayed your own people.”
“I haven’t betrayed anyone, son. And I don’t have much use for any of them, Negroes, Jews, Catholics, or Protestants.”
“They said if you spoke last night, you would be a dead man.”
“I spoke last night and I am not a dead man.”
Through an open window behind the boy there came the music of the phonograph. When he looked up, he could see the Pleiades, which seemed to swarm in the thick air like lightning bugs.