Walker Percy - Love in the Ruins - The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World

The plaza is empty now save for the rusting hulks of cars abandoned or burned in the time of troubles.

Five and a half years ago, on Christmas Eve, Paradise Plaza was sacked by Bantu guerrillas, foraying up out of the swamp. Store windows were smashed, the new Sears looted, some stores burned, cops shot up by Bantus, Bantus shot up by cops. Noncombatants fled, Christmas shoppers, storekeepers, motel occupants, drive-in movie patrons watching Homo Hijinks . Monsignor Schleifkopf left by the front door of the church, abandoning his burning Buick and golf clubs in the garage, where they are to this day. Nobody came back these five and a half years save lovers and bums and drugheads and in the end only the original denizens of the swamp, owls, alligators, and moccasins.

I should have known trouble was brewing. The night before, Leroy Ledbetter had kicked out a black couple from Tougaloo who wanted to bowl at Paradise Lanes. That very morning, walking to town, I met Nellie Bledsoe, who told me her cook had quit and she was ready “to shoot some niggers.”

“Eh? What? What’s that? My God,” I said, “you don’t mean you want to shoot some niggers because your cook quit.”

“Oh yes I do!” she cried, laughing and winking and kneading her arm. “Don’t you know what they do?”

“What?”

“They go on welfare and have their illegitimate nigger babies and get paid for it, paid more than they make working.”

“Yes, but you’re not saying that you’re going out and—”

“Oh yes I am!” says Nellie, winking and laughing. “Ho Ho Ho!”

Earlier the same morning, at six, a young jaundiced Bantu came up out of the swamp and appeared at my “enclosed patio” to be treated for liver flukes.

After I gave him his shot, he too winked at me with his yellow eye.

“I can’t pay you now, Doc, but since you’re so nice, we won’t shoot you when the shooting starts.”

“Who are you planning to shoot?”

“Anybody who gets in our way.”

“In the way of what?”

“In the way of our taking this goddamn parish, Doc,” he said, pulling out a copy of Fanon with one hand and patting a bulge under his coat with the other.

“My God, you’re not really going to shoot anybody, are you?”

“We’re taking over, Doc.”

“Why don’t you take over by the vote? You got the vote and there are more of you than of us.”

“Shit on voting, Doc.”

There was something in the air all right

On McArthur Boulevard now, a defunct parkway that deadends in a weedy lot and an ancient putt-putt course. Follow it as far as the L & N overpass and take the shortcut to town through Happy Hollow.

A bit shaky now, faintified but not hungry. The Early Times is not sitting well.

The thunderhead fills the whole eastern sky. A hot wind blows me toward it over the asphalt playground of the school. A chain rings against a flagpole.

The short cut turns out to be a mistake. Happy Hollow is a hot airless hole. The sun slants down like a laser. My stomach churns acid. When did I eat last?

The bare ground between the shacks and under the chinaberry trees never dries out. Where the sun does strike, the earth steams and gives off a smell of dishwater and chicken fat. Duck eggs rise in my throat.

But people seem happy here. Happy pot-bellied picaninnies play in the alley. Old folk rock on the porches. The unhappy young men are gone. The kindly old folk doff their caps politely. Yellow yarddogs lie chained to the chinaberry trees. They lift an eyebrow and snarl as I pass.

It is collection day. Up one side of the alley goes Moon Mullins collecting rent for his shacks. Down the other side goes old Mr. Jack Bourgeois collecting burial-insurance premiums. Both are cheerful and good-humored with their clients, exchanging jokes and pleasantries at each shack before moving on. Both collect in exactly the same way. If the householder is sitting on his porch, he will pass the time of day and hand down the money to the collector, who stands on the ground. If the porch is vacant, the collector will put his foot on the second step, rest an elbow on his knee and rap the porch floor with his knuckles, all the while looking down at the ground with a musing expression. Old Mr. Jack bangs the porch with his fat premium book.

The collectors greet me cordially.

“Hot enough for you, Doc!” cries Moon.

“How you doing, Doc!” cries old Mr. Jack.

“Yes, it is. All right,” I reply, weaving a bit

The Negroes greet me uneasily. Why do the yarddogs snarl at me and not at Moon and old Mr. Jack? I am unwell.

How will I get up the hill to town? The sun laser bores into the top of my head, but my feet are blocks of ice. If only I could make it to the Little Napoleon, where I could sit in a dark nook and drink a little toddy to settle my stomach.

Halfway up the hill it becomes clear I won’t make it Flowers of darkness are blooming in the weeds. Rank vines sprout in the path. In times of ordeal one’s prayers become simple. I pray only that I will faint in a private place where no one will disturb me and where especially Moon and old Mr. Jack won’t see me.

I have drawn abreast of the new animal shelter, a glass-and-concrete air-conditioned block of a building cantilevered from the hillside like a Swiss sanitorium.

My knees knock.

But here’s a good spot

I sit down in a dry ditch under a chinaberry whose dense branches come down and make a private place. It is next to the dog-runs that slope down the hill under the pines. Where are the dogs?

Something in the ditch catches my eye. It is a Garrett snuff can. I lean forward to pick it up and faint. Not keel over but settle down comfortably propping my head on my bag. The weeds smell like iron.

Where are the dogs?

Here are the dogs. Inside where it is cool.

When I come to, I am lying on the large-dog table in the treatment room of the animal shelter. I feel well but so weak I cannot lift my head. Delicious cool air bathes my forehead. A great blue surgical lamp shines straight down. When my eyes get used to the glare, I notice the dogs, several dozen glossy-coated curs, seated behind grills and watching with interested expressions. This is why the outside runs are empty: the dogs have come inside to enjoy the cool breezes.

Gazing down at me, hands shoved deep in his pockets and fingering coins, stands Victor Charles. I know him without seeing his face. His fat abdomen engages the edge of the table. His belt buckle is to the side. The white duck is soiled by a horizontal streak I’ve seen before. Now I know where the streak comes from. It coincides with the metal edge of the table.

I try to get up.

“Hold it, Doc.” Victor places skilled large-dog hands on my shoulders.

I close my eyes. There is a pleasant sense of being attended, of skills being practiced, strong hands laid on, of another’s clothes rustling nearby.

I open my eyes. The lamp is reflected in one coppery highlight from Victor’s forehead. The rest of his face is blue-black. I notice that his sclerae are lumpy and brown.

“How long have I been here?”

“No more than fifteen minutes, Doc.”

“How did you find me?”

“I saw you sit down out yonder.”

“Were you watching me?”

“Watching you?”

“And you carried me in?”

Victor nods.

I am thinking: it is true. All day I have had the sense of being watched.

“Where’s my bag?”

“Right here, Doc.”

“O.K., Victor. Thank you. I think I’ll sit up.”

He helps me. I am well but weak.

“Eat this, Doc.”

Victor gives me a piece of corn bread and a cold glass of buttermilk. Though the bread is hard and unbuttered, it is very good. I don’t remember anything ever tasting better. The buttermilk slides under the acid.