The lyin’, thievin’ Yankees, I hates ‘em wuss and wuss.
I hates the Yankee nation and everything they do.
I hates the Declaration of Independence, too. [It does go on, don’t it, honey?]
I hates the glorious Union—’tis dripping with our blood—
I hates their stripéd banner, I fit it all I could.
I followed old mas’ Robert for four years, nearabout.
Got wounded in three places and starved at Pint Lookout.
I cotch the roomatism a-campin in the snow.
But I killed a heap o’ Yankees and I’d like to kill some mo’.
Three hundred thousand Yankees is stiff in Southern dust.
We GOT three hundred thousand before they conquered us.
They died of Southern fever and Southern steel and shot.
I wish they was three million instead of what we got.
I can’t take up my musket and fight ’em now no more,
But I ain’t a-going to love ’em, now that is sartin sure.
And I don’t want no pardon for what I was and am.
I won’t be reconstructed and I don’t care a damn.
And there in my back yard, all cables from cameras, light boosters shaped like silver umbrellas reminding me of my dead mother-in-law under black-held parasols, a show we made. Like good planning, just the sec my crowd stopped singing their cute horror, I heard the Falls High Marching Band come pounding down our street. “Oh no.” I hit my kitchen sink.
After the band drifted off and Cassie hurt my feelings going home without onct speaking to me, I ventured forth. Cap never looked happier. He pointed to the guns just held by children, rifles now tilted in a kind of tepee Ned was making. “This,” Cap said, signaling at them weapons, “is history.”
I lifted Baby Archie from Louisa’s arms. “Sir,” says I. “Sir? This is.”
BOOK FOUR
These
Things
Happen
Archie’s First Appearance
Thou art my hiding place, thou shalt preserve me from trouble …
—PSALM 32:7
THE CHILD born after our return from war, the one who’d ridden me during that scene at the sycamore, he got named Archie. Cap picked it. Told me I could name our future girls, him all males. Each boy was dubbed for a buddy of Cap, some gents alive, some Missing in Action.
Can anybody six months old be said to have a sense of humor? Yeah, I know from Archie. Even his name was ridiculous and he seemed to half guess this. “Archie,” a good joke. He arrived redheaded like some firecracker party favor, something built to break you up on sight. Louisa, spying the fire-engine hair, blamed my gobbling crayons during Arch’s brewing. “He will probably never be beautiful, will he, Momma?” “No,” I answered, holding him up, “but look here,” and—glad to be in air—he bared them gums and grinned till his eyes hid in folds. We laughed: he knew he’d made us laugh, then joined. Character, it starts so early.
From his wicker carriage parked on our Courthouse Square, Archie would beam at anything. Sun, dust motes, street sounds—all these made his fists roll like some baby fighter who planned to grin the opposition to death. People that’d never been good with kids revised their opinion upwards. Archie’s pleasure had just warmed them from under a much-used carriage’s cowl. His eyes were sea green like that wild man Samuel Honicutt’s, my jollifying poppa. I managed to make Archie’s middle name Samuel and Daddy took a extra shine to the baby who looked weirdly like him. Poppa set up a bank account marked “Archie’s Harvard College Fund.” He claimed the pip, even prior to teeth, appeared college material. After Captain’s Money Crash, seemed my kids would need such schooling help.
When I nursed our Arch, he’d play tricks. He’d leave off suckling me. I’d look down and find his face aimed square at mine. He had only quit to get my attention. His eyes mirrored a mischief I’d long recognized as Lucy’s own. It almost tired me, seeing such energy re-arrive this fresh, so ready to try again. Next time he stopped nursing just to get noticed, I told him I had eight other kids and—not mean but definite—I set Archie on the floor. He didn’t cry, he seemed to understand this had some rough justice. Later, when my carrottop’s mouth quit pulling on my Shredded Wheat of a championship dug, I found his eyes fixed on me. But right then, he latched quick back on to Momma’s taste treat. A game! His eyes danced—he’d got both my notice and my thin blue-white milk. Something in the timing of this showed a flair. I can’t explain it. Strange that wit can come forward a goodly distance before talking does. Seeing my boy’s pranks at my own bosom, I laughed once in our quiet house—Seth Thomas chopping up eternity into a temporary salad. I laughed so hard it pulled my nipple free. Arch just kept staring where it’d been, grinning at my breast. Biting air, a joke. I could feel his weight twitch then with hiccup giggles.
Must’ve been October when things shifted, October because we were again arranging who’d be a bum this Halloween (burnt cork for beard smudge), who’d go as ghosts (my ruined sheets worsened with eyeholes), who’d be something original (“Go and make it yourself, child. Branch out”). Baby was eager to try a angel again, which meant my making wings. I’d told her to save last year’s. I remember I was pinning buckram feathers to a coat-hanger shoulder rack—the kids were glad to be home from school because there’d been three cases of scarlet fever out in the county. Was a hot fall afternoon, wide open, one pumpkin per house.
I break from wing creating and, straight pins lined in my mouth, reach towards Archie’s bassinet for to test his diapers. Child seems asleep when I lift him, arms loose-jointed all akimbo. Then I touch his forehead and the child’s so hot I yank my hand away and suck the fingers. Next I’m yelling at Louisa, pulling a pink cotton blanket over my naked child—blaming myself for not touching him onct since putting him down to nap two hours back—“Mind the others. I’m at Doc Collier’s. Get word to your daddy if you can. Our Archie’s fair burning up.”
Baby stood at the oval pier glass (one inherited from her vainest granny, Lady More Marsden). She tugged at her own left wing and said in baby talk, “Arch have burn up.” It stopped my heart, something in her idly mouthing that.
I was at Collier’s—a six-minute walk—in under two minutes, without no memory of locomotion beyond speed’s whistling over earholes.
Three people set in the murksome waiting room reading the only two National Geographics that’d ever been there. All local mothers of three or more had memorized each issue. One such person belonged to the church committee that’d recently sacked me. Plus, Emily Saiterwaite was there looking peaked. It won’t like me to cut in line out of order. But these three knew me and I held up Archie, me smiling like a idiot, “Seems … serious, excuse me, not that you all ain’t … serious.”
Nurse Milgrom—old as God and a heap more efficient—half stood from behind her desk. She touched Archie then jumped like I’d done. “Ice, we’ll be needing ice, come right this way,” and led. Her voice sounded low like Castalia’s, a grateful kind of baritone that made its every swerve matter. Fast, Miss Milgrom was down that lino corridor, her uniform rustling ahead of me like white wings or wonderful stationery. Things will work out, the rustling told me. I studied the child here in my arms. All I could think was selfish thoughts:
How I’d had him in me while waiting under the Virginia sycamore—how the sadness I lived through whilst carrying the funny gum-baring child had nearly killed me during my gray and longest tiredness—but what pleasure his silly rust-red presence soon offered. I told myself, lips moving: “If You take this child, Lord, I’ll never …” But I knew that all I had on my side were small-time actorish threats against a God who owns the theater and writes all plays. I knew I didn’t even directly believe in Him but, look, I would, to save this child.
“Ice.” When it was ready, Nurse took my red sleepy baby. From me. Lowered him into a porcelain vat of water so cold it seemed blue. Archie’s green eyes bulged so open then. He looked up at me and knew me
, and his silent question run: Must This Happen?
He seemed soothed by my being here. Slow, most sunk in ice, he bared his gums—from pain but like a practice, too. It was what’d have to pass for now for smiling. I moved my hand to touch him, but was scared to feel his face. It would be very hot or very cold and which was worse? Collier stood behind me. Archie had gone redder than any of my children ever sunburned at their worst. Overhead a ceiling fan chewed nothing. I heard people mumbling in the waiting room. Concerned, they sounded. Doc and Nurse Milgrom made this whirl of white around a whiter basin: one pink-orange-purplish shape was in it—but the head was out of water, gasping like some witty little put-upon starfish. And Archie knew me. That’s what really gave me hope, see?
“I’m right here,” I said up closer. They lifted him from wet and bound him in a towel and I heard his teeth chattering, though Archie had no teeth.
Doc walked me out. I said, “He knows me, you saw.” “Good thing, fine sign, but this might just be scarlet fever, Lucille. It’s around. Keep close, we’ll maybe have to quarantine your others, I’ll send word they must stay at home. You wait on our porch. Captain been sent for? Good. Look …” He pointed at my ankle. It was bleeding some. Taking shortcuts across strangers’ lawn, I’d snagged a croquet wicket and the corner of one low fence.
“‘S nothing. Tend him,” I pinched Doc’s sleeve. He nodded behind smudged spectacles and left me.
The three patients got grave, seeing me, eyes on my ankle. “Sorry to bust in and all,” I shrugged and flashed my gums, a good sport. “It’s just … it’s just my boy, he … and they …”
I hated that somebody from First Baptist saw me here like this. She’d later say it was all God’s Punishment. That’s the way those people’s minds work.
The street was not busy enough. I paid attention to six potted plants along the porch rail. Several needed water, a spiny mother-in-law’s tongue plant, huge it was. Two young dogs nosed each other’s opposite end. A group of boys saw one mount the other, boys tried to break it up. “Let them,” I cried from Doc’s porch. Beside myself, I was, without quite knowing. “Let em.” I then added, “Sorry,” but boys cackled, “Yeah, Roy, let them fuck. You heard the old lady.” I sat in the single rocker—eager to run home and calm my others but scared about leaving here. If the Health Department came up and quarantined them with me gone, it’d shake them something awful. They’d instantly believe the worst of Archie and I could not have that.
He had recognized me. Yeah, I told myself, nodding, rocking. Excellent sign, Doc said so, yeah. Forty minutes I was out there on hold. Everybody knows how elastic time is. Those forty minutes, as a example for you, if they’d been shifted into land, not time—would’ve meant most of Antarctica explored on a person’s hands and knees. I was out there feeling very cold. I did not look at my own hurt place. The new bargain was—if I lost the whole foot then Archie could live. I pictured my husband, a child, his leg spared thanks to pistols held by a good friend. How might you thank the person for that? What could I offer, who could I rob to save that funny yam in yonder?
He knew me and had grinned his puckish simple grin. Fine indicator. Doc even said so. We’ll see.
Walking fast, Captain arrived. “It’s not scarlet fever,” he said first thing, like giving me direct orders. I nodded, willing to obey in this at least. He said, “Lou mentioned his having a fearsome temperature. But it’s not scarlet fever Archie has, I know not. It’s in the county, everybody says so. What, are you walking around with a bloody ankle?”
I reached over and took his hand. I made a mouth. “Sorry,” my man said and sat beside me. “Sorry. You know how one gets.—He’s our card, Archie. Something to look forward to with him. Sorry,” my husband said.
I felt grateful I had not yet been forced to contribute nothing aloud.
We just sat there. It was nice. He was in the un-rocking chair beside mine. To feel another person’s big mitt close over all five of your own fingers—I cannot tell you how calming this was just then, how precious. He had been my partner in getting myself with Archie and now he’d interrupted work and everything to see us through this. That too was a very excellent sign about our smart boy’s future, yes. That pulled me back partway from the South Pole. We had our differences, the Cap and me, but in emergencies … He said, “How’d you do it?” I knew he meant my ankle but only for … conversation purposes. “Just getting over here quick enough.” Then he said, “We’ve been very very lucky with ours, Lucille. Measles, nothing more. Great good fortune, God help it to continue.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yes.” But I felt he was talking too much. Bad luck.
Two of the three patients left and I could tell that they had not seen Doc yet, that they were not pleased but couldn’t gripe aloud. They gave us the respectful head bobs that dramatic bad luck gets.
Collier spoke behind me. I turned to see him drenched, ice water, his own sweat, eyeglasses about to slide clear off the tip of his long nose.
“May I?” I stood, held up my finger, showing I planned to push them on.
“Please, many thanks.” Doc nodded at Captain. “As you were,” Doc said, hinting we both should sit again, a military order. I hate military orders, not too good of a luck at a time like this.
Doc had the kindest voice, just like his nurse did. Collier’s twin daughters, the flute geniuses, had run off with a paper boy one third their age and, since that, folks said Doc’d grown vague-headed and that he overprescribed. They said he had got Old Lady Helms hooked to drugs but, me, I trusted him. I was thinking how it helps when your family practitioner and his old nurse both have such beautiful kind talking voices. “Lucille,” the total voice now said. “Lucille, child, it’s not good. He’s gone into fits. It’s the fever. He’s resting. The crisis is occurring just now. It happens this fast sometimes. Have you taken him downtown? He’s so young and it’s just profoundly contagious.”
“It’s not scarlet fever,” Captain told our doctor. “Because that’s out in the county.”
“Doc, I did take him to Lucas’ with me in his buggy. I mean, I had to buy food, where could I leave him? You got to live.”
“It’s fine, you two just sit right here. News could be okay. Look,” he went back for a second, then carried out the tray, “I brought you both a nice Cocola, on a tray.”
I pointed to chilly sweating glasses. “Ice,” I said. “You got enough back there? You don’t need this? And your plants want watering. He knew me, didn’t he, Doc? Tell Cap. Good sign, Doc said.”
Then Nurse Milgrom come out, wiping her hands on a towel. “George? best go in.” I’d never heard her nor anybody else call Doc Collier by his first name. Then Nurse said, “I think it … went against us.” Doc moved quick but he was back out here so fast. Had he even checked, really checked good in so little a time? I mean, you want to be sure.
They had this look. A look about them, standing there, white uniforms shoulder to white shoulder. I cannot tell you. (I knew—like on the side—that they had been lovers for forty years. “George,” she’d said. Death made them forget to hide it for oh maybe twenty seconds. Staring at It, that scared, they drew nearer for a flash, then distance remembered itself. I saw this out the corner of my eye-like. It made me sad for them, their secret, even their happiness, it made me sad.)
Doc touched the sleeve of Captain’s black coat, said he was just as sorry as a person could ever be. “These things happen,” his choir voice said.
“It don’t seem possible,” I sounded bouncy, wrong. “Boy, not three hours ago, he was all appetite and making faces, you know our Archie …” “I’ll bring you out a nice Cocola on a tray,” Nurse Milgrom said. “I did, I did that,” Doc pointed.
I said loud, too loud, “What do I need with it being On A Tray? That’s supposed to help us now and be fancy, a drink On A Tray?” My husband reached for me. I shook him off, I turned my back on everybody. “It’s just it takes so long for them to finally get born, and then it’s over with so q
uick.—Ain’t it? It’s just so quick …”
Captain reached for me, nervous I was being foolish and I knew he was right, I really was this time. Because I seen them dogs come back and start rutting. “Look,” I signaled, “look, two dogs are fucking and the baby’s dead. They get to fuck. And nobody even knows yet. Who’ll miss him?”
Oh, darling, forgive me this dropping all this on you like this.
It’s just that if you can tell your own son is going to be funny—and how he might offer that fine a level of company—you get ready to enjoy some benefits from Archie along up ahead. He came into a person’s body and out of a person’s life—quick as some hat trick, gone. He is recalled today only as a nineteen-dollar marble block saying:
Archibald Samuel Marsden
infant son, six months
“Called Home. Saved from the Damage to Come.”
Oh, dear. I swear I’ll never mention him again.
The Tribe That Answers
Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother’s children were angry with me, they made me the keeper of the vineyards, but mine own vineyard have I not kept.
—SONG OF SOLOMON 1:6
WHITE FOLKS’ Bible say, “In my Father’s house is many mansions.” But, Mrs. Lady? down here, for now, this the only one you got. House about to burn, ma’am. Is.
You still wants your girl to tell-tale Africa aloud?
Castalia’s been being you slave for most her fifteen years, entire. I forever listened at tales of your great coming-out ball in Charleston. You always say that’s partway like my coming out … of Africa.—Well, Lady, today and today only, since you wiggling there on the piano stool, since we slamming fast towards this bad deal’s end, I believe I is going to tell you … all of it, for onct.
Just to prove what a fine mood this slave’s in, you stay at you keyboard, keep on tinkling out that icy tune. (Do it make you feel better? Good. Cause from now on, Mrs. Music, you gone need all the comfort you can get.)