A Summer of Kings

  "Well," I said, "she sure had to wait an awfully long time before you proved her right."

  King-Roy nodded. "She had the faith," he said. "I owe her plenty. That's why I'm here, here with y'all. I'm here for my momma. She's always been on my side. She's the only one who believed me when I said I didn't kill anybody. She told me to come here, so here I am."

  King-Roy's eyes blinked fast several times, and he turned his head to look out the windows, way off toward the pavilion, still blinking, and I thought he was one of the luckiest people on Earth to have a mother like that. I knew my mother loved me. She had to. But if someone had accused me of killing a man, she would believe him. Maybe she would think I did it by mistake, but still, she'd feel sure that I did it. Everyone in the family, the whole household, would believe I did it. I didn't have anybody, besides Pip, really rooting for me. Everybody was too busy rooting for Sophia and Stewart. They were the stars of the family. Thinking about this made me feel ashamed for what I had said to Pip that afternoon. I didn't tell King-Roy any of this, of course. Instead I said, "Do you know what my sister, Sophia, did last week?"

  King-Roy turned back to me and shook his head. "No. What did she do?"

  "She drew an aerial view of Central Park on her Etch A Sketch, or 'L'Ecran Magique,' as Monsieur Vichy calls it. Six years old and she's only flown over Central Park once in a helicopter, and she put that on an Etch A Sketch. It's a toy and I can barely draw a circle with one of those things. I'm always turning the wrong knob the wrong way. My father got a book out of the town library to compare her drawing with a photograph of Central Park by air, and her drawing matched it exactly." I looked up at King-Roy. "Now, how do you compete with that?"

  "You don't have to compete. You're your own person with your own kind of smarts." King-Roy crossed his legs and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. He did this slowly, carefully, as if he thought the glasses might ram into his eyes if he pushed them too fast. I had never seen anyone adjust his glasses with such care before.

  "Now, you take me for instance," he said, bringing me back to our discussion. "I read all the time now, but I can't claim that most of my learning comes from books. A lot of it comes from just watching and living and dealing with what comes my way, and somebody coming up to me and telling me how smart she is with an Etcher Sketch doesn't mean much to me. I'm not so impressed." He stood up and turned to face me and said, "Now, I bet someone like you has got natural smarts. You're easy to talk to, and that takes a natural kind of smarts."

  "Really?"

  He nodded. "Sure 'nuff. You've made me feel right at home."

  "I have?" I asked, standing up and facing him.

  King-Roy nodded and looked around the ballroom again. "Coming to a place like this, so big, like a castle or something, well, it feels real strange. It's so grand, it makes me feel like I'm supposed to do something important coming here, or say something real clever, but you make me feel like it's gon' be all right."

  King-Roy smiled this warm melt-your-heart kind of smile and I felt my knees go weak. He liked me.

  I smiled back at King-Roy and decided that I liked him, too. Maybe I really could fall in love with him, and maybe when Laura and Kathy got back from their vacation and saw me walking hand in hand with Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome, they'd see that I was more mature than the two of them any day.

  I hesitated a second, then took King-Roy's hand. "Come on, let me show you the rest of the house. Let me show you your rooms. I fixed them up myself. I even put flowers in your bedroom even though you're a boy—or a man, I mean. Oh, and wait till you see my bedroom. Beatrice—that's Beatrice Bonham, the actress—she's staying with us and she's so jealous of my room it makes her cross-eyed."

  King-Roy laughed and it sounded like a donkey braying, and that made me laugh, too. It made me want to tell him more. It made me want to tell him everything about my life.

  Together we walked back through the solarium and the living room until we came out into the foyer, where we found Auntie Pie standing there. She stood right in the center of the foyer, right in the center of Mother's good jewel-toned Oriental rug. She stood right there, waiting for us—waiting for us with a gun in her hand, aimed right at the two of us.

  FOUR

  "Esther, get out of the way," Auntie Pie said, using the gun to gesture with.

  The gun looked like a gunslinger's revolver and weighed heavy in her hands. She could barely hold it up straight.

  Both King-Roy and I stood right where we were.

  "What are you doing?" I asked. "Where did you get that gun? Are you crazy?"

  "That's my gun," King-Roy said, his nostrils flaring. "You took that out of my suitcase, yonder." He pointed through the open front door at his straw-colored suitcase. "I don't appreciate that. No, ma'am, I don't appreciate that one bit."

  King-Roy's voice sounded as if he could barely contain his anger, and I felt scared—scared of the gun and scared of him.

  "I bet you don't. You were planning to kill us all in our sleep. Well, we'll see about that."

  "It's not loaded," King-Roy said. "And I don't have any bullets, either. And if I wanted to kill somebody I wouldn't need a gun, but I'm no killer. I thought y'all knew that already. I thought my momma explained all that." King-Roy looked at me for some kind of reassurance.

  I stared at him wide-eyed and said nothing. I didn't know what to think.

  "I know you were accused of killing a white man," Auntie Pie said. "I know you've got no proof except your mother's say-so that you didn't do it. That's not proof of anything, and here I am with a gun I got from your suitcase. That's all the proof I need."

  Sweat was beading up on King-Roy's forehead. He seemed guilty standing there with this wild look in his eyes, and I wondered if for once Auntie Pie was right. What if he really did murder a man? What if he really was planning to kill us all in our sleep? All my romantic thoughts flew out the window. This was the way most of my fantasies turned out—just the opposite of whatever I imagined. I should have known it was all too good to be true.

  "That's not my gun," King-Roy said. "You're calling me a murderer, but you're the one standing there with the gun in your hands."

  "Don't try turning the tables on me, young man," Auntie Pie said. "You're the one who brought a gun into this house." She brought her other hand up to help her steady the wobbling gun. I could see her wrist was getting tired.

  "My friend thought I needed protection, so he gave that gun to me."

  "Protection from what? Nobody around here is going to shoot you. Sounds like you've got a persecution complex, if you ask me. Everybody just goes around accusing you of murder and wants to kill you for no good reason, yet here you are with the gun."

  "Oh they've got reason, all right, ma'am," King-Roy said, flashing his eyes at Auntie Pie. "I'm black. I'm a Negro, and that's reason enough, isn't it?" King-Roy's smooth milk-shake voice sounded angry or bitter or both.

  Auntie Pie let go with one hand and waved the gun around again and said, "If this isn't loaded, why don't you just come take this out of my hands, then? If it isn't loaded."

  I was ducking and swaying every time Auntie Pie swung the gun toward me while she spoke, but I noticed King-Roy stood right where he was.

  "Because, ma'am, I'm showing you the respect I wish you'd'a' shown me and my belongings," he said. His glance shifted back and forth between the suitcase on the porch and the gun in Auntie Pie's hands.

  He said, "If you want to see the gun isn't loaded, just—"

  Auntie Pie didn't let him finish his sentence. She waved the gun around again and said, "You'd like that, now, wouldn't you? I get busy checking for bullets, and you dart forward and overpower me and shoot me dead. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday, you know."

  King-Roy and my aunt stood staring at one another for a good half minute, and then King-Roy said, his voice softer, gentler, "Well, then, ma'am, Miz ...?"

  "That's Auntie Pie—my aunt," I said, feeling like maybe I shouldn't
be helping him.

  King-Roy nodded. "Miz Pie, I think I will just have to remove that gun from your hands and show you myself that it's not loaded. Otherwise we're going to be standing like this all day."

  King-Roy stepped forward, and Auntie Pie raised the gun up to eye level and said, "Stand still or I'll shoot," just like she was on Gunsmoke or something.

  King-Roy tiptoed over to Auntie Pie and spoke to her like he was trying to calm a lunatic. "It's all right. Now, I'm just gon' show you it's empty. It would be nice if you could just hand me the gun. Could you do that, ma'am? Just hand me the gun?"

  "Not on your life," Auntie Pie screeched. By this time, King-Roy was right up on her, and Auntie Pie dropped the gun on King-Roy's foot and ran out the door, back toward the gatehouse, shouting, "Run, Esther, run for your life!"

  I didn't know what to do, so I stood right where I was, listening to the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I watched King-Roy bend down and pick up the gun. "My oh my," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know about this."

  He opened the gun and turned around to show me. "See, no bullets. I wouldn't bring a loaded gun into your house. I never owned a gun in my life—never even fired one."

  I stepped forward and stretched my neck to see the empty gun. I let out a big breath of air and smiled at King-Roy.

  "I knew it wasn't loaded," I said.

  "That Auntie Pie's dangerous," King-Roy said, with a touch of anger still in his voice. "I don't know about staying here with someone like her running around loose and getting into my things. What gives her the right?"

  "Oh, she's all right, really—most of the time. You just need to make friends with her."

  King-Roy walked over to his suitcase, on the porch, and I followed him, standing over him while he crouched down to open the case. He used great care to tuck his gun underneath his folded shirts. Everything in his suitcase was folded to perfection. He had three shirts, all of them white, and two pairs of trousers, both brown, a shaving kit, a newspaperlike thing that said MUHAMMAD SPEAKS across the top, and a flyer with MALCOLM X written on the front of it in red letters. The name scared me. I didn't know much about Malcolm X except he hated white people and wanted to blow them all up. Seeing the flyer made me scared again, and I backed away.

  King-Roy closed the lid and stood up with the suitcase in his hands. He turned around to face me. "Now, then," he said, "how am I gon' make friends with your Auntie Pie?"

  I studied his face for a second, trying to read him, trying to decide if he was a good guy or a bad guy. I knew even murderers could be handsome, but I remembered our conversation in the ballroom and how sweet and gentle he seemed, and I said, "Well, it's simple. First, it helps if you like animals, because she's got a bunch of them down at the gatehouse. They're wild, wounded animals, and she fixes them up and sets them free again. But if you don't like animals, then just give her something sweet, like candy or a pie or cake. She's got a real sweet tooth."

  "Is that so?"

  I nodded. "It's easy as pie—literally," I said, hoping I wasn't betraying my aunt to a murderer. I shrugged off the thought and said, "Come on, I'll show you to your rooms."

  King-Roy nodded, adjusted the suitcase in his hand, and held his hat in his other hand; then together we climbed the stairs.

  "Is that how your aunt got her name?" King-Roy asked, stopping on the steps to look back at the foyer a second. "It can't really be Pie," he said, returning to me. "What's her real name?"

  "Hyacinth," I said, running my hand along the curving banister. "I couldn't pronounce Hyacinth when I was little, so I called her Pie and it stuck. It suits her. I can't ever imagine her being called Hyacinth. It's too flowery, and Auntie Pie is not a flower; she's too full of piss and vinegar." I put my hand to my mouth and looked at King-Roy. "Oh, sorry, I shouldn't have said 'piss' in front of you."

  King-Roy laughed his donkey laugh, then said, "You haven't said anything I haven't heard before."

  I said, "It's not very ladylike, though," knowing how much my mother would disapprove. I glanced over at King-Roy and I could see a twinkle in King-Roy's eyes and I knew he really didn't mind, so I added, "But that's okay, because I'm never ladylike; just ask my mother."

  "You don't like pretty dresses and jewelry and stuff?"

  We were at the top of the stairs by this time, and I pointed with my thumb to the right.

  "You're in the north wing with my brother and Mr. Vichy," I said. "My parents are in the wing to the left, and Beatrice's rooms are just beyond that door." I pointed to the door to the left of my parents'. "She gets the whole servants' quarters to herself—seven whole rooms—and she still complains. And, no, I don't like dresses and jewelry. If they would let us, I'd wear pants to school every day. I mean if boys can wear pants, why can't girls? All we can do is wear shorts under our skirts." I decided to come clean and tell the truth about myself. I was glad I hadn't had time to change into Beatrice's things. I was starting to get the feeling that King-Roy might like me just the way I was. "And perfume and colognes make me sick—literally," I added for good measure.

  We walked down the hall past my sister's tidy pink room. I kept talking. "A couple of years back I had real bad BO because my mother didn't notice that I was growing up and needed deodorant and—and things—so I sprinkled my father's English Leather cologne onto my slip so I would smell good and so Martha Reed at school would stop following me and telling me how bad I stunk. I always loved how my father smelled, so I thought that it was a good idea, but that stuff's strong. It was so strong, everyone in the school could smell me coming a mile away. I ended up getting sick from it in the middle of math class. I threw up right beside my desk and I got sent home, and Martha called me the Little Stinker that whole year, even after Mother got me the deodorant and everything. And Martha had braces on her legs, so she wasn't one to speak, if you ask me. But I never said anything about her braces."

  "Well, you acted better, then, sounds like to me."

  "Honestly?" I said, stopping in front of my bedroom and looking up into King-Roy's handsome face. "Not really. If I had been the better person, I wouldn't have even thought about her braces. Lots of times I thought about calling her bracey, or even tubby because she was also kind of plump. I didn't do it. I didn't call her anything out loud, but I thought it often enough."

  "How come you didn't say anything, then?" King-Roy asked, setting his suitcase down as if he thought he was going to be staying in my room. "Were you afraid to?"

  I shrugged. "Maybe a little. It wouldn't have been very nice, would it? And I figured she probably called me the Little Stinker because she wanted people to see she wasn't the only one with problems. She only went to our school for a year. She didn't know me when I had my crossed eyes, thank goodness. Anyway, this is my room. I just thought you'd like to see it."

  Most of the time my room was messy. Not a bad messy—with dirt and cookie crumbs and cockroaches or anything—but a good messy, with books and papers and clothes and sports equipment. I had cleaned it before King-Roy arrived, and as long as he didn't look in my closet, my room looked as neat as Stewart and Sophia always kept theirs.

  King-Roy whistled. "This room's like a palace," he said.

  I pointed out the real gold used to paint the carved work in the wood molding that runs around the top of the walls, and the way one side of my room looks just like a stage, the way it bows out with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lily pool and pavilion. King-Roy crossed the threshold and went over to the windows to look out.

  "Nice," he said.

  "That's why Beatrice Bonham, the actress, wants my room," I said, joining King-Roy at my windows. "She loves gold and diamonds and fur coats, and, of course, she loves the stage. My room is the most fancy room in the house except for my parents'. Look." I turned and pointed to my bed and chest of drawers. "That's all hand painted—those flower bouquets and the gold."

  King-Roy crossed his arms in front of him and examined the furniture a moment, then said
, "I don't know, maybe, but it doesn't seem like you and this room go together."

  I shrugged. "My mother chose this room for me, so it's special even if I don't really care for it. I think she thinks if I live in a feminine room, I'll become more feminine. I think she worries about that—that I'm not turning out right or something." I shrugged. "Anyway, I like that Beatrice wants this room and I have it. It drives her crazy. She's always scheming to get it away from me." I looked up at King-Roy and felt this giddiness travel through me. I couldn't believe that here we were talking about school troubles and my room and what I liked to wear and about my mother. My jaw trembled with the excitement of getting to tell about myself to someone, knowing that he was listening.

  "You know what?" I said. "I believe you're going to be the first houseguest I've ever really liked."

  King-Roy smiled, then turned back around and gazed through the windows. I watched him staring down at the lily pond. I studied his face and noticed how flat his nose looked from the side and how sad it made him look somehow, and I knew somebody as gentle and sad-looking as King-Roy could never be a killer. I smiled to myself and joined him looking down on the lily pond and the fields and gardens. After a few minutes King-Roy turned his head and said, "You ever had a day, or maybe just a moment, that changed your life forever?"

  I shrugged and crossed my arms in front of me. "I don't know."

  "Oh, you'd know it if you did. It happens and then all of a sudden you aren't thinking the same about anything anymore. Everything's changed."

  "What happened? What was your moment?"

  Before he could answer me we heard footsteps on the stairs, and I tensed up. "That's her," I said. "That's my mother. Please, don't tell her I said 'piss,' okay? She doesn't like me talking like that."

  King-Roy nodded. "All right," he said.

  We moved over to the doorway of my room and watched my mother walking down the hallway. I could tell by the company smile she wore that Auntie Pie hadn't told her about the gun yet. If she had, I knew King-Roy would be out the door and on his way back to Alabama and I wouldn't be able to bear it. I liked this King-Roy Johnson, and for some reason I couldn't explain, even to myself, I felt most desperate for him to stay.