Barry Hannah - Yonder Stands Your Orphan

“Uh seen this guy in the tin hut !” Malcolm was moaning to the back row.

He was ignored. Penny picked up a guitar and began strumming and hooting a song directed toward the higher obedience of everybody to the untenanted, unastronauted moon.

When Roman first heard of integration, he thought it was a movement about meeting and drinking with people like Chet Baker, and he was a partisan. But it was mostly the Pennys and the Genes and the Pedens and the split-in-two Raymonds who were at the table.

Peden began speaking, looking neither left nor right. “Thank you for your arrival, Malcolm. It is good a husband and wife freshen their vows. We lose sight of the face of God, which we must at least try to see every day, and we lose sight of each other. We become annoying mists to each other, let’s face it. Egan said those words, I stole ’em.”

“No, wait, I’ve got my poem!” said Sidney. This grainy man was in the doorway watching all worlds. “Women. You can’t live with them and you can’t fuck their ears.”

Melanie alone was scandalized, but she had brought her own scandal with her and so she stayed quiet. The ceremony jerked on to its end, and Sidney, nervous as Judas, suddenly ran for his car. Mortimer saw this act, hoping the rest would leave shortly. He was not good at waiting.

Egan moved among the crowd, glad the wedding was quick. There was no reception. The sheriff began talking loudly.

“I wasn’t quite done, Facetto,” said Peden. “It’s my house we’re in.” Peden didn’t like cops.

“I’m sorry. Go ahead. I thought we were going to talk about the man .”

“Sure we are. Now I’m through talking. Go ahead.”

“We are needing testimony against Man Mortimer,” said Facetto.

“This sounds like you on television. The new breed of high sheriff,” taunted Peden. “What the hell is new about Mortimer?”

The sheriff was angry, red.

“You’ve gotten plenty of airtime, sir,” Harvard broke in. “Much expatiation on criminology. Little actual arresting of it. There is not much you have done except,” Harvard swept his hand toward Melanie, “dally with a woman twice your age.”

“I am older than that. We are in love,” said Melanie.

“In heat,” spat Harvard. “I think Facetto should abdicate for the woman he loves. Or whatever negligent sheriffs do. Man, you can’t serve.”

Facetto was mad. He had been taunted by mail, the telephone, distant shouts, and now by this considerable old surgeon whose intelligence he could not deny.

“You’ve got an orphans’ militia over there,” said Lewis. “Somebody’s going to be hurt.”

“I’ve spoken to them,” Facetto said. Many folks stood up and milled, just absorbing him. Nobody else was listening. They were talking on their own and leaving. He was very sorry he had come. There was no face to maintain here, no walk to walk. He felt himself melting and near tears. His gun hand trembled. He was beginning to join the hate for himself. Melanie saw all this. She could not rush to him, and in fact she despised him a little herself.

“You can’t gang up and destroy this man. He’s a good man. He works hard,” Melanie was saying. This too was ignored, drowned out, mocked. They themselves left and Peden was alone.

Peden, with a coffee, fresh and hot French roast from his loyal Big Mart maker, was in agreeable shape finally. The last of the kicks of the lush, peaceful even during the last wedding. No longer threaded out and driven forward, he sat and reviewed the life he lived in the junkyard, and he found it good. These stacks and caverns of heavy metal around him. They had a quietness. A solid face. It was something, he was something that made it signify. He had the Lord, he had his time. Who suspected any would haul in this rotted rust and take the better version of the same ’48 with them? Peden still hoped he would get over it, and that his old debt would be forgiven.

The debt was this. Peden had once gone in to Mortimer while very drunk and asked him for $13,000 to buy a new Harley Davidson Softtail. Everything depended on it, Peden thought, for his own esteem. His soul was already in the bike. It was only a matter of what he would do to get it. He had a woman named Bertha at that time, from up at Redwood. She had satellite television and they had a good time, she mainly sober. Bertha fell off his new machine on a curve out of Panther Burn on Highway 14. She had no medical plan, only Peden. Peden borrowed more, and Bertha began working for Mortimer at the car place in Vicksburg. SUV demos. Good deals. Now Peden was in big hock, and the interest was berserk, but he and Mortimer kept smiling, and Bertha’s back and leg were okay.

Peden lit a Lucky, sat and stretched in front of the potbelly woodstove. Very nice to be out of the rain, very comfortable here. Didn’t need the television on, even if it was a good big fat Phillips like Bertha’s. He thought of Byron Egan, what a constant pal he was. How all was right when Egan cheered him. Peden had had another pal who died, Debord. Debord had simply gotten lung cancer and died, but Peden was certain his friend rode next to him still. Whenever he thought of Debord, and then Egan, he became spiritual. Perhaps he should not even read the newspaper, to keep it that way. The trio was all they needed. One happened to be gone and needing no coffee anymore. But riding with them, his white hair behind him like fleece in a legend.

Just then a man came in the window with a club, clambering over the windowsill from the shotgun porch. Peden couldn’t believe it was Mortimer or that he was coming straight at him this way. Later he thought Mortimer expected he’d be watching television when he came in. The club was big, with wire around it. Peden didn’t recognize it until Mortimer had limped away, with little effeminate screams. Mortimer hit him once on the shoulder, then Peden was all over him, picking up chairs and an old wooden Coke case. He thrashed on Mortimer very well, over and over. Saw he was going for the hip, where there was a knife, he well knew. Peden beat and beat on Mortimer until the man could take no more, found the door and dragged away. Without even a threat.

For a good long while, Peden rubbed his shoulder and thought about a trip to the hospital. Then he decided on it but grew cold when he thought of Mortimer. He doubted the man could stand and feared rooming with him in the emergency ward. This was not a problem. Mortimer was not in the building.

PEDEN WAS A STRONG MAN. HE WAS MUSCULAR IN total despite the years of hard living. His shoulder was bruised black but healed quickly.

Mortimer did not heal much at all. But he didn’t languish long. He hurt in every pore, every tissue. Even his lips had been hit. He was not angry at Peden. He would kill him, he was quite sure, and perhaps with his own hands. But he could not blame him. He hated his attitude, hopeful in his stupid mistakes, the ’48 and now fighting back. When he called up Peden, he told him to destroy the ruined ’48, take it to bits, every cell. His voice was even, and Peden wondered if the fight had proved something.

Mortimer himself wondered whether he would have to use a gun, for which he had no affection. He hoped not, but things would be coming up. His tongue was getting more tied, he could not explain and mollify as he used to do. The wedding. On my own property, Dee, and with a medium-size mechanic, a fool .

Frank Booth, too, chilled him with his bald head and Twitty face. What tribute was this? Or was the man deranged and unaware of what he had become? Bald Conway Twitty, if he had lived longer. Booth’s appearance was a bad thing of the shadows, and Mortimer was horrified he would come near with some other weapon.