A Death On The Wolf, page 9
The bell announcing a car at the pumps dinged twice and my attention was forced back to my job. I went out and started filling Mr. Sonny Tanner’s new Ford pickup with gas. Just as I was finishing up, I saw the rider of the Vincent walking down the sidewalk from up town. I could see what Dick meant. No pilot in the U. S. Air Force I’d ever seen looked like this guy. He was clad entirely in black from head to toe. His black jeans had silver studs down the outside stitching of the legs. He was tall, maybe even as tall as my father, and his black tee shirt fit him snugly, revealing every ripple of his musculature. He had on black riding boots and a wide black leather belt with a big Bowie knife stuck in a sheath hanging from it. From a head-on view, his hair looked short, but when he turned to look at my Honda, which was parked off to the side of the station, I saw the ponytail. Dick hadn’t exaggerated; the guy’s dark brown hair was nearly down to his waist. Hippies were supposed to be all about peace and love, and if that were true, I was certain this man was no hippie.
As Mr. Sonny paid me for the gas, I watched the man in black enter the bay where his bike was parked. Dick started talking to him. The man asked him something, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. Then Dick pointed to me, and the stranger turned to look at me. He had a cold stare that unnerved me.
“You gonna get my change?” Mr. Sonny said.
I looked down at the five dollar bill in my hand. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.” I glanced at the pump to see the amount and then sprinted into the office to ring up the purchase and get Mr. Sonny his 80¢ in change. He never gave me a tip when he stopped by for gas. I ran back out to the pumps and gave him the three quarters and a nickel. When I turned around, the man in black was standing there not six feet from me. I was startled and jumped back a bit and hit my elbow on the Hi-Test pump. This close, I could see he was not as tall as he had appeared at a distance. He had an olive complexion and there was an Oriental look to his dark brown eyes. Staring at me, he fished a cigarette out of the pack that was in his shirt pocket. It was a brown cigarette. I’d never seen a brown cigarette. He stuck it between his lips. When he pulled the lighter out of his left front jeans pocket, I said, “Can’t smoke out here at the pumps.” He ignored me, flicked open the lighter, and lit the cigarette. He clicked the lighter closed and stuck it back in his pocket. He took a long draw on the brown cigarette, then removed it from his lips and blew the smoke in my direction. The whole time his eyes never left me, and he never blinked. He was almost leering at me and it gave me the creeps. Finally, he spoke. “Is that your Scrambler over there, mate?” He did have an English sounding accent.
“Yes,” I said.
The stranger put the brown cigarette back to his lips and took another draw. He blew out the smoke and said, “Was that you riding this morning outside of town with that pretty little Sheila on the back?”
“Her name’s not Sheila,” I said defensively, and there was an angry edge to my voice. The guy was pissing me off now that he’d mentioned Mary Alice.
He smiled and blinked for the first time. He put the cigarette back in his mouth and stuck his hand out to me. “Name’s Bong,” he said, “Peter Bong.”
I reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Nelson Gody,” I said. “You’re from England?”
He laughed and said, “Not a pom, mate. I’m from Australia.” I guess he saw me eyeing that brown cigarette because he took the pack out of his pocket and held it over to me. “Want one?” he said. His voice was totally pleasant, and didn’t seem to fit the way he looked.
“No,” I said. “I don’t smoke.” The one and only time Frankie and I had tried a cigarette was back when we were fourteen. It made us both sick and I decided then smoking wasn’t for me.
Peter Bong replaced the pack in his pocket. “You gave me a pretty good run this morning. You know what that is I’m riding?”
“It’s a Vincent,” I said.
“Not just a Vincent, mate. That’s the Black Shadow. You yanks have never made a bike that can run with the Black Shadow, and the Japs never will.”
“How fast were you going when you passed me?” I asked.
“About a hundred.”
“How fast will it go?”
“I’ve had it to one-twenty and she still had some go in her.”
“My dad said Rollie Free went a hundred and fifty on a Vincent at Bonneville.”
I could see the surprise in the man’s eyes. “Your old man knows his bikes. Free was riding a Black Lightning, a racing version of the Shadow. It was faster.”
I could see Dick standing by the office door looking at me. “I gotta get back to work,” I said to the stranger.
The man dropped the brown cigarette and crushed it with his boot. He walked back over to the office with me. “Does your dad ride, too?” he asked.
“Yeah, the Honda is really his bike. I just ride it all the time.”
“Well, if you’re serious about riding, mate, you should get you a crash hat.”
“A what?”
“A helmet,” he said and pointed to his head. He looked at Dick. “How much do I owe you?”
“Three dollars will cover it,” Dick said.
The man pulled a black leather wallet, which was chained to his belt, from his back pocket. He opened it and took out three one dollar bills and handed them to Dick.
“Like I told you,” Dick said, “I only patched that tube. You should go to a motorcycle shop down in Biloxi or Gulfport and get a new tube as soon as you can.”
“Will do, mate,” the man said. He looked at me. “Nice meeting you, Nelson.”
I smiled and nodded. Dick and I watched Peter Bong bungee his leather bag to the back of the bike’s seat. Then he put his jacket and helmet on and kick started the Black Shadow. It fired right off and had the same loping idle that a Harley does, but the sound of the Vincent’s exhaust note had a harder edge to it. He rocked the bike off the center stand, put it in gear, and roared off.
“Hippie,” Dick said in disgust.
“I don’t think so. He’s just different.”
“Yeah, he’s different all right. He said his name’s Bong. What the hell kinda name is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He said he’s from Australia.”
“Hippie,” Dick said again and headed into the office.
Chapter 9
Sea of Tranquility
“Do you miss Uncle Jack?” I asked my aunt. I was sitting at the bar in her kitchen. It was Sunday morning, a little after ten, and I was dressed and ready for church. I even put on a tie since this would be my first time escorting Mary Alice to worship with me. She was in her room getting ready. Daddy and Sachet had already left since Daddy had to be there early to teach Sunday School, which Aunt Charity and I decided to forego since this was Mary Alice’s first Sunday.
“I miss him every day,” Aunt Charity said. “What in the world prompted that question?”
“I don’t know,” I said gloomily. But I did know. For the first time in my life I was grappling with the concept of a committed relationship and the dynamics of how two people in love managed their time when apart. The two adults that meant the most to me had both lost their life partners far too early, and yet they seemed to be getting along just fine. I, on the other hand, was reduced to near paralyzing melancholia at the mere thought of being away from Mary Alice.
Aunt Charity opened the oven and slid in the pot roast we would be eating later. She had decided to have us all over to her house for dinner today, especially since she knew we’d be over here anyway to watch the moon landing this afternoon on her color TV. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “Your chin’s been on the floor all morning.”
I sighed and said, “I’m going to miss Mary Alice when she has to go back to Poplarville.” I had not intended to admit that, but I’d let my guard down and the truth just spilled out of me.
Aunt Charity came over and sat on the barstool beside me. She smiled, and like before, I caught a glimpse of my mother in her face. “Why are you worrying about that now? She doesn’t have to go back until next month.”
“I wish you’d never brought her here,” I said. There was movement behind me and to my left. I rotated around on the bar stool to see Mary Alice standing there. A quick look at Aunt Charity confirmed what I feared: Mary Alice had heard me.
The hurt in Mary Alice’s face paralyzed me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I watched her turn and walk slowly over to the door. She disappeared down the hallway and then I heard her bedroom door close. I turned to look at Aunt Charity. She just frowned and shook her head the way I’d seen her do a thousand times when she was displeased with something I or my sister had said or done.
My catatonia subsided and I got up and went straight to Mary Alice’s bedroom door. I knocked softly and called her name. There was no response, so I turned the knob and opened the door. Mary Alice was sitting on the bed. She had on her Sunday dress, which was white, not pink. I went over and knelt down in front of her. Tears were running down her cheeks. “Mary Alice?” I said again.
“Please leave,” she said.
“I didn’t mean that…what I said in there to Aunt Charity. I was just trying to tell—”
“Please leave,” she repeated, cutting me off. I didn’t know what to do. What could I say to make her understand that I was dying inside? How could I tell her those words I’d said were nothing more than my frustration because she had taken up residence in my heart and I couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving me in four short weeks? “Please leave,” she said again, and this time her voice cracked as she choked back a sob.
I stood up and an overwhelming feeling of nausea seized me. I turned and ran from the room. I sprinted down to the bathroom where I vomited up my breakfast into the toilet.
Afterwards, I found Aunt Charity waiting for me in the den. She was standing at the sliding glass door looking out at her huge back yard. I walked over to her with my head down in total dejection. I felt so weak I could hardly move. She put her arms around me and I buried my face in her shoulder and began to cry.
“Oh, my baby boy,” she said. “It’s not easy, is it?”
Her words made me cry harder. Mama had always called me her “baby boy,” and I couldn’t remember the last time Aunt Charity had called me that. Maybe she never had. “What’s not easy?” I asked as I released her and wiped my eyes.
She smiled and put her hand to my cheek. “Growing up,” she said.
If what I’d been through so far this summer was growing up, I didn’t want any part of it. Not easy? It was impossible. “She won’t talk to me, Aunt Charity,” I said. “I wanted to tell her I was sorry and didn’t mean it, but she just asked me to leave.”
“Her feelings are hurt, Nelson.”
“I know,” I said, and fresh tears welled up in my eyes.
“Go in the kitchen and get you some Coke to settle your stomach,” she said. “I’ll go talk to Mary Alice.”
“What are you going to say to her?”
“You let me worry about that. Run on, now. Get you some Coke.” She pointed toward the kitchen and left for Mary Alice’s room.
After I finished a small glass of Coca-Cola, I went back in the den and sat down on the couch. There was a huge knot in my stomach. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I was trying unsuccessfully not to think about the possibility that my relationship with Mary Alice was over almost as quickly as it had begun. I don’t know how long I’d sat there with my eyes closed when I felt someone sit down beside me. I opened my eyes and turned to see Mary Alice. Her eyes were red from crying, but otherwise she looked like nothing had happened.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I said. I was surprised at my words, and at the serene way I spoke them. I’d never called Mary Alice “pretty girl” before, but the appellation surely fit. She looked like a picture in her white Sunday dress, and now I noticed the pink lace accents. “Will you let me explain, now?” I asked.
Mary Alice smiled. “You don’t have to. Your aunt told me what you and she were talking about. I understand what you meant. But as much as it’s going to hurt when I have to leave, I wouldn’t trade this summer for anything. Don’t you feel that way, too?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Then will you promise me you will quit fretting over next month so much?”
“I’ll try. It’s hard, because I want to spend every minute with you. Knowing you won’t be here…it hurts, Mary Alice. I can’t help it.”
She reached out until she found me, then put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. “Aren’t you getting your license on your birthday next month?” she said over my shoulder.
“Yes.”
“And aren’t you getting a car?”
“Yes…how’d you know that?”
“If I promise to come here to your aunt’s every weekend, will you promise to drive to Poplarville and pick me up and take me back?”
We released each other and I looked her in the face. “They’ll let you do that?” I asked. “I mean, you can leave there on the weekends when you’re in school?”
Mary Alice laughed. “I’m not in school. I have a tutor who comes four days a week. And it’s not a prison, Nelson. Miss Charity said she would talk with them at the home. She thinks me coming here on the weekends will be fine. Will you promise to drive to Poplarville to get me?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I will.” I was beaming and I had Aunt Charity to thank. She knew what the solution was to my depressed mood, and she’d set the wheels in motion to accomplish it. Come the end of August, Mary Alice might not be here day in and day out the way she was now, but with the promise of seeing her every weekend, I could survive. I hoped.
— — —
I was proud as a peacock to walk down the aisle at Bells Ferry Presbyterian Church with Mary Alice on my arm. We were a little late getting there, and the organist had already started playing when we entered the sanctuary. Whether or not everyone turned and stared at us because we were late, or because I was escorting an angel, I don’t know. I’d like to think it was the latter. We took our places in our usual pew. Daddy was already here, and sitting down front. As the chairman of the Pulpit Committee, he would be introducing the minister who would be preaching and who was seeking to be our new pastor.
After Mr. Jake Harland, Chairman of the Board of Deacons, gave the announcements, then conducted us through the Apostles Creed and the opening hymn, Daddy ascended the pulpit to give the prayer in preparation for the morning offering. His supplication was heartfelt, simple and elegant. He asked for God’s blessings on the service and the missionaries our church supported, he prayed for healing for the sick, and he gave thanks for the many blessings we all enjoyed and were usually too busy to acknowledge. When he gave the Amen, four of the deacons went up to the Lord’s Table to retrieve the collection plates. The organ started to play as the deacons fanned out and started passing the plates. Daddy resumed his seat in one of the two chairs behind the pulpit on the rostrum.
After we sang the Doxology and the deacons returned the collection plates to the table, Daddy took the pulpit again to dismiss the smaller kids to children’s church, and then he began his introduction of our guest preacher. As I watched my father up in the pulpit dressed in his dark blue suit, seemingly so at ease speaking before the hundred or so people who filled our small sanctuary, I thought what a fine minister he would make. Daddy had been an elder in the church since before I was born and he’d taught the men’s Sunday School class for as long as I could remember. The few times when I’d grown bored in the boys’ class and sat in on Daddy’s teaching, I thought his expositions of scripture to be every bit as good as Rev. Doug’s. Now, however, he was merely giving us a brief resume of the man who was about to deliver God’s Word to us. His name was Rev. Kyle Petigru. He was a young, mousey looking man, with short hair slicked back with tonic. Daddy told us he was a 1968 graduate of Columbia Seminary, and an assistant pastor at a large church in Mobile. As my father talked, Rev. Petigru was sitting in the other chair behind the pulpit with an affected grin on his face. He was wearing a black Geneva gown, which we were used to because Rev. Doug would wear one on Communion Sundays and for baptisms and other special services. But Rev. Petigru was also sporting a collar and bands, something I’d only seen in photographs of eighteenth century ministers. It was a pretentious accoutrement that made me uneasy and made him look out of place. I didn’t like this man, who hardly looked older than me, before he even spoke a word. When he did, my disdain became palpable.
The text Rev. Petigru chose for his sermon was John 9:1-41, the story of Jesus healing the man who was born blind. I’d heard Rev. Doug preach this story at least twice that I could remember, so when this guy started his exposition, it was all I could do to keep quiet. Rather than focusing on the true point of the passage, Rev. Petigru turned the story on its head and made it about how the spiritual aspects of one’s life (namely, sin) can have physical consequences (for example, blindness). Jesus said the blind man’s malady was not the result of sin, either his or his parents, because he was born that way. Such was not the case, according to Rev. Petigru, for those who were afflicted after having the gift of sight. The body was both spiritual and physical, and our sins could result in not just spiritual blindness, but actual blindness. Rev. Petigru told us that every physical ailment, every disease, every handicap, could be traced to some spiritual defect and this passage in John’s Gospel proved it. I thought he was full of shit.
As this false prophet spewed his malarkey, I kept looking at Mary Alice beside me. I was hoping she wasn’t paying attention, but she was, and clearly bewildered. A minister of God was telling the most innocent girl I’d ever known that she was blind because of her sins. I wanted to run up the aisle and strangle him with my bare hands. Instead, when I’d had all I could stand, I leaned over and whispered in Mary Alice’s ear, “Come with me.” I took her hand and we stood up. Aunt Charity looked at us. There was a big question mark on her face, but when I glanced up to the rostrum I could see Daddy understood. It was almost imperceptible, but there was a slight smile on his face. With everyone staring at us again, I led Mary Alice out of the sanctuary.
