William Gay - Provinces of Night

When he crawled back into bed she stirred sleepily against him. Where’d you go, she asked.

Albright was settling himself into the warm covers. Just got up to make sure all the doors was locked, he said.

BELLWETHER SAT looking at his shoes. They were military low-quarters shined to a rich black gloss. Bellwether had been in the war just long enough to get shot and win a medal and then he was discharged. He was shot almost immediately, as if his assassin had been waiting on him, standing at the ready with his piece already cocked, waiting for the paperwork to be filled out. Along with the medal Bellwether had acquired a military bearing, a military neatness. If he had slogged through the entire war perhaps he would have lost this along the way but he had not. He had formed the habit of spitshining his shoes and civilian life had not broken him of this habit.

Just what kind of deal is this he’s cooked up? Bloodworth asked.

Something pretty sorry, I guess, Bellwether said. It gets pretty complicated with the legalese but what it boils down to is that he’s claiming you’re incompetent. That you’re a danger to yourself and a danger to others. He wants to put you in some kind of a home, and he’s petitioning the court to be made your guardian and have a power of attorney.

The old man seemed only to hear the word home. A crazyhouse? Hellfire. He’s crazier than I am.

Well, I’m not braggin right now about my own sanity. I’ve got no business even telling you this in the first place. Or even being out here, as a matter of fact. But I knew you when I was a boy, and you’ve always been square with me. I think any man deserves a warning. They were out there at the courthouse talking to some people from the state and I nosed around and found out what was going on.

I just may show some folks how much danger I can be to other people. Wait a minute. You said they. Who else is in this? Not Warren.

You ever heard of a fellow named Coble?

Well I’ll be damned, he said. He grinned ruefully. The sky was black with chickens coming home to roost, he could see them settling about the trees.

And you can just forget about this business of being a danger to folks. Are we right clear on that?

The old man was silent a time, thinking all this over. How can I fix this? he finally asked.

It was cold in the trailer and Bellwether kept thinking the old man might get up and stir the fire but Bloodworth seemed not to notice so finally he rose himself and took down the poker from where it hung on a nail behind the heater. There was wood stacked along the wall and he guessed the boy had done that. Bellwether raked the coals toward the front of the heater and laid sticks of split oak atop them and closed the stove door. There was a small window above the juryrigged flue for the stovepipes and he stood for a moment looking out at the day. Small dark birds he didn’t have a name for but just called snowbirds foraged the ice with an air of unfocused agitation. Beyond the treeline the sky looked the color of blued metal and as cold.

It’s beginning to spit snow again, Bellwether said.

Let it come, Bloodworth said. Ass deep to a tall Indian. I’m cozy as a badger in its den. Young boys to tote wood in for me, officers of the law to load up the heatin stove.

It strikes me you’re taking this a little light for a man puts as much value on his freedom as you always did.

You never did tell me how I could fix it.

I don’t know that you can fix it. You need to get Warren up here on the double. Trouble is, he hasn’t been around here like Brady has. Brady claims he’s been watchin you. Claims you shot one of his dogs and waved a gun around threatening him. Coble told them his wellworn story about the Black Angus cows. All about the preachin and the babtizin. You might have thought that was funny at the time, but it’s come back on you like a bad check.

A fool is just so hard to resist, Bloodworth said. How about that boy? He’ll speak up for me.

The way the law looks at it he’s a minor. I could speak up for you myself, but I’m not your next of kin. That’s who the judge issuing papers is going to be listenin to, and right now that’s Brady. He’s your next of kin, and you seem to have pissed him off pretty good.

Then if it’s up to him I’m in a hell of a shape.

I guess you are. All I can think of to do is call Warren for you. Do you know how I’d do that?

He’s got a telephone. He lives in a place called Town Creek, Alabama.

Bellwether wrote that down. He put on his hat and adjusted it. I’ll let you know what I find out. Any papers’ll be served through my office.

I appreciate it, Bloodworth said, Whether I acted like it or not.

Bellwether nodded. He had the door open and a foot on the top step when Bloodworth thought, Florida. Hellfire.

Hey.

Bellwether turned.

What if I had a different next of kin?

How’s that again?

If you’d do me one favor I don’t guess you’d balk at two.

I probably wouldn’t.

I need a telegram sent to Little Rock. He had found paper and was rummaging in a drawer for a pencil. I’ve got me a plan to knock Brady’s legal papers into a cocked hat.

What are you doing, calling up the reserves?

Two chances is twice as good as one by my arithmetic, Bloodworth said, handing Bellwether the paper. Let me give you some money to pay for this.

When Bellwether closed the door and went down the steps the day was colder yet and the yard beneath its layer of ice lay in frozen whorls. He could hear sleet in the trees again and it rattled onto the roof of the cruiser like shot and lay there without melting.

WHAT WOKE the old man was not the engine but the long drawnout sound of wheels slurring on snow and ice. When the noise stopped he came fully awake. The car had halted before the trailer but he could still hear the engine, idling now, a car door closed.

Visitin hours are about by God over, Bloodworth thought. Since the night he’d killed Brady’s dog he had kept the pistol beneath his pillow instead of in the guitar case and now he slid it out. He had come to believe that before this was over he was going to have to shoot somebody. Brady, Coble, who knew. Just start with dogs and work up.

He heard footsteps on the ice and just as someone pounded on the door death came swiftly into the trailer like a physical presence. It came swiftly up the steps and turned the knob and so through the door, crossing the linoleum with a sure firm footstep toward where the old man sat on the bed with the pistol in his hand. Death’s presence was overpowering in the tiny trailer, its weight on Bloodworth’s chest was such that he could hardly breathe, he had to struggle against it to get his shoes on, take up a heavy wool peacoat from the night table. Long ago the old man had been helping to dig a grave in a family plot on Grinders Creek and they were inadvertently digging the woman’s grave too near her husband’s casket and Bloodworth’s shovel had disappeared into the rotten wood and the smell that had risen out of this ancient and sacred earth had been the same odor that saturated the trailer and Bloodworth had stood with the shovelhandle in his hands breathing death in a kind of appalled outrage, thinking, so this is what it amounts to, this is what it all comes down to.

He was at the back door when the pounding came again, moving in a kind of panic, some primitive instinct for survival demanding that he be somewhere else, anywhere else but here. He slid the pistol into the peacoat pocket and put on his hat and took up the stick from where it leaned against the doorjamb. He eased the door open and went cautiously down the metal steps. He closed the door soundlessly and felt the lock click and stepped into the yard.