Walker Percy - The Second Coming

God, love, faith, marriage. The old words clanged softly in the golden air around them like the Westminister chimes of St. John’s steeple clock.

“Actually, Will, it was your other lady I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What other lady is that?”

“Ha ha. I’m talking about my favorite girlfriend, the apple of your eye, your lovely daughter Leslie, a real sweetheart.”

Leslie a sweetheart? lovely? the apple of his eye? Leslie, his daughter, was a tall sallow handsome dissatisfied nearsighted girl whose good looks were spoiled by a frown which had made a heavy inverted U in her brow as long as he could remember.

“What about Leslie? Is she giving you trouble?”

“You better believe it.”

“What does she want now?”

“She wants to write her own wedding ceremony.”

“Could it be any worse than your new liturgy?”

“Ha ha. That’s a winner. But what are we going to do?”

“We?”

“You don’t have a bishop looking down your throat.”

“I sure don’t.”

Jack pulled him close. They were standing outside the open door of a room. Jack almost whispered.

“I want you to meet our newest couple. Tod and Tannie Levitt. Actually they’re our oldest couple. We’ve stretched a point and allowed them to share the same room. They’re eighty-five and eighty-seven. In the same room! Big deal, right? Bear with me. I have my devious reasons. They’re cute as they can be. You’ll love them. But, more important, I think you’ll see the possibilities of a real couples’ community even in this bareass hospital room. I want you to imagine Tod and Tannie in a rustic setting, a simple but homey apartment with a balcony opening onto the entire Smoky Mountains. Did you know that the hundred twenty-first psalm was Marion’s favorite? I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. And you better believe that’s where hers came from.”

Tod and Tannie were sitting slumped in their wheelchairs between two beds. The television was mounted on a steel elbow high above them, too high to see. The Crosswits was on without sound. Tod was nodding and both hands in his lap were rolling invisible pills. Tannie was no bigger than a child. Her back was bowed into a semicircle so that she faced her knees. Her eyes were closed. But her bed jacket was a cheerful pink, all silk and ribbons and lace, and her soft white hair was as perfectly combed and curled as a Barbie doll’s.

“Will,” said Jack Curl loudly. “I want you to meet Tod and Tannie, our first resident couple.”

Tod went on nodding. Tannie did not open her eyes. A sound like a soft whistle came from her.

“They’re this week’s winners on the dating game,” said the chaplain, winking at him. “So they’re shacking up with us. Right, Tod?”

Tod nodded, had not stopped nodding.

He gazed down at Tannie’s little stick arms. The skin was white and paper dry but a vein, thick and powerful as a snake, coiled on her wrist.

“Now watch this,” said Jack in a lower voice but not minding if Tod and Tannie overheard him. “This is what I mean by an ongoing couple relationship. Tod!”

Tod went on nodding and rolling pills.

“Tannie!” cried the chaplain.

Tannie went on snoring, chin on her chest.

“Tod and Tannie! Give us a little song!”

Tod did not stop nodding but one hand seemed to rise of itself and give Tannie a poke in the ribs. “Sing, Mama!” said Tod in a hoarse whisper.

As if he had pressed a button, Tannie’s head flew up, her eyes opened, showing milky-blue, and she began to sing in a high-pitched girlish voice. Tod’s hand conducted and his head lilted from side to side instead of nodding. He came in on every third word or so.

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true.

I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.

It won’t be a stylish marriage,

I can’t afford a carriage,

But you’ll look sweet upon the seat

Of a bicycle built for two!

“For two,” said Tod.

The instant the song was finished, Tannie’s head sank to her chest and she began to snore. Tod stopped conducting and went back to nodding and pill rolling.

“Well?” asked Jack Curl in the hall.

“Beats television,” he said vacantly, moving his head to make the yellow light race around the beveled glass of the front door.

“You better believe it. Now, Will.”

“Yes?”

“Now. What I want you to imagine is the two of them, Tod and Tannie, and two hundred couples like them, from sixty-five on up, each with their own little rustic villa, coming back after evensong and lifting up their eyes to the hills. What do you think?”

“Okay,” he said, unable to move his eyes from the sunlit door.

“Okay?” Jack Curl rounded, came closer, in excitement. “You mean—”

“I mean I will do as you say. I will imagine them.”

“Oh. Good. I think.”

When an old person died at St. Mark’s, often there was no one to claim the body. Marion would go to great lengths to trace the family and arrange the funeral. Yamaiuchi would chauffeur them in the Rolls, leading the way for the hearse to distant Carolina towns, Tryon or Goldsboro, where after the funeral in an empty weedy cemetery they would head for the nearest Holiday Inn in time for the businessman’s lunch. Marion, animated by a kind of holy vivacity, would eat the $2.95 buffet, heaping up mountains of mashed potatoes and pork chops, and go back for seconds, pleased by both the cheapness and the quantity of food. Like many rich women, she loved a bargain. All the while he gazed in bemusement at the ragged Southern cemetery, empty except for the Rolls, the hearse, Yamaiuchi, and three Asheville morticians (he was usually the fourth pallbearer for the casket light with its wispy burden), and then gazed around the bustling new Holiday Inn and the local businessmen come to eat. Live men and dead men.

The shotgun lay beside the man on the wet speckled leaves. In his father’s eyes he saw a certitude. He had come into focus. How does it happen that a man can go through his life standing up, not himself and dreaming, eating business lunches and passing his wife in the hall, that it is only when he lies bleeding in a swamp that he becomes as solid and simple as the shotgun beside him?

“What?” He gave a start. The chaplain was saying something.

“I said when I come over tomorrow, perhaps you and I and Leslie can have a little powwow. About this ah do-it-yourself wedding.”

“Sure.”

“I want to get your old friend Mrs. Huger in on it too. I have a feeling she can handle Leslie. She’s quite a lady.”

He was looking down at his hand. A shaft of light struck it. The yellow light, refracted by the prism, shaded into blue and red on his skin like a bruise. It was still possible to feel the buck of the Luger in the bones of his wrist.

“You’re so lucky Mrs. Huger turned up when she did, Will. You’ve no idea how helpful she’s been. Isn’t she an old flame of yours? She’s a doll. Did you know she’s my main contact with Leslie and the groom’s family? Why is it women know so much more than we do?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Huger. Your old—”

Oh, Kitty. Kitty Vaught Huger. My old flame. What in hell was Kitty doing up here? She and her grinning dentist-husband. They were everywhere, all over the golf course and in his house. Kitty had a woman’s managerial way with her. For a fact she had been helpful. Even Yamaiuchi liked her. Last Saturday when the Cupps flew in from California she and Yamaiuchi had fixed the hors d’oeuvre. What did she want? What did her husband want? Like many people who want something, he had a way of coming at you from the side and grinning back to his eyeteeth. Both came closer than people usually do. When they greeted you, they fell forward and laid hands on you. When Kitty touched him, he felt showers of gooseflesh but not exactly excitement. It was the sort of gooseflesh you feel when a child, not knowing about such things, puts his hands on you.