The Good Morrow Page 2

  Chapter 2

  I

  Stephen Foster Abernathy was the only child of Josiah and Maude Gallagher Abernathy. Joe had been killed in action in Korea in 1952 when Foster was just a baby, and by all accounts Maude was ill suited to motherhood, not to mention the strain of being widowed so early in life. Most of the time she deposited Foster with Joe’s relatives at Bellevue Plantation while she gallivanted all over the South burning up her health along with her inheritance. The little time she spent with Foster was devoted to filling his head with impossibly romantic ideas about The South. Once or twice before she really began to go downhill, she took him with her to garden parties in Charleston or Savannah, but the idea he had of her life, just like the image he had of his father as a dashing officer, was purely a fantasy derived from his mother’s desperate attempts to shield both of them from reality. During his freshman year at Woodbury Forest prep school Foster happened to see some old newsreels of the Korean War. The images of soldiers trudging through the snow in a pathetic retreat while medics administered transfusions to hopelessly maimed men being loaded onto helicopters haunted him for months and created the first real tear in the paper castle his mother had constructed for him to live in. The fact that she had already been admitted to a sanitarium by that time and refused to let him visit her had somehow been incorporated into his understanding of the world, but the frontal assault represented by these newsreels was more than he could deal with, especially when they were followed shortly by an unending barrage of images from Vietnam. Foster retreated further into the realms of mythology and mysticism, casting himself in the role of Southern Writer with some encouragement from his English teachers and a great deal of help from every possible form of hallucinogenic drug, which he ingested in large quantities during his senior year. News of his mother’s death caused him to do an about face, and he managed to get himself accepted at Virginia Military Institute where, of course, he lasted about three weeks; and that was the last that anyone had seen or heard of him.

  II

  The sun was barely up, and the ground glistened with dew as Uncle Jack made his way across the grounds behind the mansion at Bellevue towards a large dilapidated shed. He dragged open the door, which had probably been closed for at least twenty years; and the morning light streamed into the shed. An animal of some sort scurried away into the shadows, and the frantic flapping of birds’ wings filled the rafters. Dust rose into the air giving palpable shape to the light pouring through the door.

  Jack stood at the doorway like a priest preparing to enter the sanctuary. Inside a massive iron wheel stood revealed in the light, emblematic of a time when machinery was an heroic achievement forged by fire and muscle rather than an alien and insidious mutant spawned by a host of other machines. In the shadows beyond the wheel loomed the awe-inspiring shape of a gigantic steam powered tractor.

  Jack entered the shed and approached the machine with all due reverence. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was covered with all manner of dirt and dust and cobwebs and leaves and bird nests and rust. Gradually the rapturous awe with which he gazed upon this newfound object of devotion gave way to the excitement of planning his attack. He circled the tractor, gingerly removing a twig here or a leaf there and visually assessing the damage done by time and neglect to the brass or iron or wooden surfaces. A lifetime of tinkering with junk from countless garages and tool sheds had perfectly prepared him for this moment. He pulled out his pocketknife and scraped away the dirt and rust from one spot on the side of the boiler in order to check the condition of the metal. Satisfied with his preliminary inspection, he folded up the knife and stepped back to contemplate the overall picture once again before embarking on his methodical and unhurried restoration of the tractor to its former glory.

  A car horn startled him, and he turned to see Bubba’s car in the driveway.

  “It’ll never get off the ground.”

  “I’ll have her plowing fields long before you find Foster in Charleston.”

  III

  Bubba laughed and waved as he drove off towards the road. Jack was probably right. He didn’t have the foggiest notion where Foster was, but there was something about the idea of playing private investigator that he couldn’t resist. Part of it was The Old Man’s hold on him even from beyond the grave. Thy will de done. Part of it too was his suspicion that Ruthie was cooking up some scheme by which she could get her hands on the property, and he wanted to cut her off at the pass. And part of it was his feelings for Foster. He remembered him mostly as a lonely child with a vivid imagination and lots of energy who was always running around the place leading a cavalry charge or slaying dragons. Bubba’s work had kept him away from Bellevue much of the time in those days, and he felt a lingering sense of loss associated with Foster. Maybe if Bubba had been able to play a more active role in his upbringing, Foster could have been spared some of the problems he had at school. Foster was the son Bubba had never had, but even more than that Foster was the enthusiasm of youth which Bubba had never really felt.

  He started with the selective service records. Bubba had always assumed that the main reason no one ever heard from Foster after he dropped out of V.M.I. was that Foster was too busy dodging the draft. He was surprised to learn that Foster had registered and had been declared 4F a couple of months after he left school. They no longer had any records indicating the nature of Foster’s particular disability, but it wasn’t hard for Bubba to conjure up a scene in which Foster had put the fear of God into the members of his local draft board by preaching the gospel according to Ho Chi Minh and LSD.

  He had less luck with the Department of Motor Vehicles. Foster had never bothered to renew his first driver’s license and had never had a car registered in his name. His record was clean with the Charleston police – unless, of course, he was one of the protestors booked for vagrancy under the name of Mahatma Gandhi, Napoleon Bonaparte or Gustav Mahler after a demonstration in 1971. A visit to the central branch of the Charleston public library produced, along with a lesson in the mass production of red tape, the fact that one Stephen F. Abernathy had two books which were seven years overdue. They were Earth and Gods by Vincent Vycinas, and The Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross. Bubba paid for the books in Foster’s behalf and jotted all the information down on his legal pad – although he felt that any self-respecting private eye would have used the back of a laundry ticket instead.

  The newspaper morgue had nothing on any Abernathy since Maude’s death except a clipping about his own retirement. It was obvious that public records were not going to lead him to Foster. He was going to have to go around talking to people until he stumbled upon someone who had known Foster. The only photo he had of Foster was from a prep school yearbook, which Bubba found in a box of things Foster had left at Bellevue the summer before he entered V.M.I. He doubted he would recognize Foster if he bumped into him on the street, but at the same time he suspected there was something about the look in Foster’s eyes in the photo that someone might recognize.

  Bubba had browsed through the box of souvenirs and odd and ends in hope of getting some kind of lead, but most of it refused to tell him anything. The yearbook gave Bubba the impression that Foster was a bit out of it, and it wasn’t hard for him to imagine Foster deliberately cultivating an image of himself as an eccentric loner as a way of dealing with the fact that he was awkward socially. There was one note from a girl in the box, which Bubba could hardly bring himself to read. Her name was Jane, and there was no envelope or return address. She seemed to be saying goodbye forever as only a teenager can, and Bubba just hoped she wasn’t pregnant.

  So armed only with his legal pad and a twelve year old photo, Bubba began making daily treks into Charleston and Savannah in search of the heir to the throne. The less progress he made, the more obsessed he became. He left behind all the shyness which had characterized his own dealings with society for sixty years and found himself accosting perfect strangers on the street or in the mid
st of their work. He listened to more irrelevant discourses and hard luck stories than in all his years as a circuit judge, and he wore out the transmission in his car. But he kept on looking.

  Something told Bubba that Foster had to be in Charleston or Savannah. Or perhaps it was just that he knew there would be no retrieving him from anywhere else. If the search for transcendental wisdom had led Foster as far astray as New York or California, there would be no hope of rehabilitating him even if he could find him. But Bubba felt certain that Foster’s roots were too firmly embedded in the South for him to live anywhere else. Maude had seen to that – and her map of The South encompassed only a relatively small area surrounding Charleston and Savannah, though at times she bestowed begrudging recognition on enclaves in Virginia and Louisiana.

  Sergeant Ellis of the Salvation Army in Charleston was the first person to respond to Foster’s photo. He recalled someone who used to attend their Sunday night suppers and sing hymns with an unusually robust voice, but he could not recall his name; and he feared that he had long since abandoned the straight and narrow path. Bubba assured him that the problem was congenital and ought in no way to be viewed as a reflection on the effectiveness of his mission.

  The rabbi at a synagogue had an even more vivid recollection of Foster’s participation in High Holy Day services for several years running. He felt that under different circumstances Foster could have had the makings of a fine cantor. Even though Foster admittedly had his own distinct style of Hebrew pronunciation, it was clear that he sang from the heart and that the litany had some very special, albeit personal, meaning for him.

  The shoe shine man at the Greyhound bus terminal displayed an extraordinary memory for details about every derelict who had passed the time with him, and he apparently knew Foster at one time; but years of service to his fellow man had so warped his mind that he no longer had any conception of time whatsoever. His memories of Foster could have been ten days or ten years old, and nothing that Bubba could extract from him was of any real use.

  Bubba stumbled onto a pawnshop where Foster had pawned a typewriter and a guitar five years ago. The pawnbroker remembered Foster because he used to come visit his things, but he hadn’t seen him for years and could only suggest inquiring at a coffee shop where he knew Foster used to hang out. The coffee shop referred Bubba to a bar across the street from a junk yard where Foster had worked for a time. The bartender there seemed suspicious of Bubba when he showed him the picture.

  “You with the F.B.I. or something?”

  “No, he’s my first cousin once removed. I’m looking for him because he has inherited the family plantation.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  “Yessir. It’s a place down the coast about half way between here and Savannah. I’d like to find him so I can tell him about it.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t you tell me anything?”

  “He wasn’t a bad kid. He never really harmed anybody, but I was just losing too many customers. I had to kick him out.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Oh, you know, just ranting and raving. Carrying on all the time. I never understood what he was talking about.”

  “Do you have any idea where he was living at the time?”

  “I think he was living at the junk yard – at least until Harry found out about it and fired him.”

  “Where do you think I should look for him?”

  “I don’t know. You might try the Salvation Army mission downtown.”

  Once again Bubba had reached a dead end.

  He really was a little old for this kind of stuff. His back and legs ached, and he couldn’t bear the thought of climbing another flight of stairs. He had begun to wonder sometimes whether he really wanted to find Foster – judging from the impression he was getting of his lifestyle. But at the same time he couldn’t bear to quit. He would call it a day, go home and rest up and then hit the trail again.

  IV

  Kathleen was trying to dry the dishes as Jesse more or less washed them at the sink. He had trouble holding the dishes and dropped about one out of three as he put them in the drying rack. Kathleen managed to rescue most of them, but several fell on the floor and broke. Jesse did not even seem to notice.

  “You been working here a long time, hunh, Jesse?”

  “Jes about as long as I kin remember. I was mowin’ the grass when the Judge was born.”

  She turned back towards the sink just in time to catch a bowl on its way to oblivion. Little Lee and Kathleen had decided to stay on at Bellevue Plantation indefinitely. During the years they had spent roaming around the country in their van, she had gradually come to terms with the fact that Lee was untainted by even the slightest suggestion of ambition. She knew deep down that was precisely why she loved him so. He knew the meaning of life resided not in chasing phantoms but in the enjoyment of the present moment; and the chief means by which he enjoyed life, aside from eating and smoking dope, was by loving her – adoring her, worshipping her, caring for her, needing her and balling the holy bejesus out of her as only a man undistracted by worldly concerns can do. Of course it had its drawbacks too, like living in a van and never having any money and having to use an IUD; but The Old Man’s will may have solved all that. According to Bubba they were entitled to live at Bellevue as long as they liked. There always seemed to be plenty of food here, and they could grow their own stuff out behind the barn, and Kathleen felt that she could be useful here. They wouldn’t just be freeloading relatives. She could work around the place and help take care of everybody; and who knows, if it worked out all right she might be able to take the plug out of her womb. In the meantime she liked having a family even if they were a bit odd.

  She was particularly fond of Jesse. Being a Northerner she was able to perceive and appreciate qualities about him that a native Southerner might have taken for granted or simply overlooked because he was black. Like the way he moved, which was a function of his cultural heritage as well as his rheumatism. Or the completely unintelligible Gullah dialect he lapsed into at night when he was tired. To Kathleen he was the genuine article, an authentic Afro-American; whereas to most Southerners he would be just another old colored man. But beyond all that Kathleen responded to something in Jesse which transcended all cultural traits. Inside his weather-beaten frame, behind the conditioning of years of servitude there glowed the embers of a dignity and integrity and innate goodness of heart which Kathleen knew to be the most precious of gems.

  She waited to catch the next plate before turning to put a bowl in the cupboard.

  “Why do you think The Old Man left the place to Foster?”

  “Lawd, honey, der weren’t much use speculatin’ why he done one thing or the other. I reckon he just did things the way he did ‘em and tha’s all the’ was to it.”

  A plate slid off the edge of the counter and shattered on the floor before Kathleen could get to it, but she took it in her stride and just kept on trucking.

  V

  Lee and the Colonel were sitting on the front porch rocking, each in his own way stoned out of his gourd. Lee had on a white linen suite which was several sizes too large and a wide-brimmed Panama hat. The Colonel had a pitcher full of whisky beside him which he used to refill his glass, while Lee was getting his help from his corncob pipe. They had been contemplating Reality for quite a while together before the Colonel spoke.

  “You may be a damn hippy bum, but I can see you got Abernathy blood in your veins.”

  “Yessir?” Lee was flattered but a little puzzled.

  “I like the way you handle that woman of yours.”

  As the Colonel’s remark ricocheted around his mind, Lee gazed over and saw for the first time the goat horns growing under the old geezer’s hat. He also noticed that the Colonel’s eyes might be able to focus after all if the scene on the other side of a keyhole were of sufficient interest. He made a mental note to tighten security procedures in and around his
bedroom, and then part of his head persisted in ringing changes on the notion of a threesome with the Colonel while the rest of him enjoyed smoother sailing by digging the inspired acrobatics of a squadron of gnats hovering three inches in front of his face. Eventually everything coalesced in a beatific vision as Kathleen emerged onto the porch bearing a plate full of brownies.

  Lee pulled Kathleen into his lap and felt her up while she fed him a brownie.

  “You’ve been testing these in the kitchen; I can tell.”

  Kathleen only giggled and stuffed another bite into Lee’s mouth. Lee offered the plate to his comrade in arms.

  “Colonel, my man, have a hash brownie. Beats a keyhole any day.”

  The Colonel had switched to a different channel where he was absorbed in a rerun of the Spanish American War.

  Kathleen put another brownie in Lee’s mouth and then began munching on the other end of it until they were kissing and chewing and devouring each other as well as the brownie.

  A station wagon overflowing with luggage pulled up to the porch. Cousin Ruthie, her William and their kids, Graham age 6 and Susan age 4, disembarked. Ruthie made a beeline for the front door, leaving William to cope with the children and the baggage. She paused on the porch only long enough to feast her eyes on the spectacle of two hippies smooching in a rocking chair while being chaperoned by a drunken old nincompoop.

  “I suppose Bubba is still off playing Sam Spade.”

  Her greeting elicited even less of a response than she expected.

  Graham and Susan wandered off in opposite directions as William struggled with the baggage.

  “Hey, ya’ll wait up. Graham don’t you wanna help Daddy carry in the bags?”

  Susan came up to stare at Lee and Kathleen, and she helped herself to a brownie.

  VI

  Bubba’s car pulled up in back of the house at 4:00 AM. He had taken to working nights in order to talk with a portion of the Charleston population which was, to put it mildly, incommunicado during the day. Tonight’s outing had been particularly nightmarish as he had wandered through a labyrinth inhabited by hookers, hustlers, winos, con men, drug addicts and blues musicians.

  The light was on in the kitchen, and as Bubba came trudging up the back steps he beheld Kathleen sitting on top of the kitchen table in a lotus position. To Bubba this was just another routine way in which the Lord performed his wonders, and he closed the door quietly behind him so as not to disturb her if she were at one with the All.

  Kathleen opened her eyes and smiled. “Hi.”

  “Sorry in disturbed you.”

  “Did you have any luck today?”

  “No, and I think I’ve just about reached the end of the line.”

  Bubba sat down in a chair next to the table.

  He was glad to have an excuse to postpone climbing the stairs up to his bedroom. He also like being with Kathleen. Simple conversation with her was somehow refreshing. Whenever she said “Hi” it was like she had offered to help carry in the groceries. The questions she asked were soothing instead of aggravating and even when she said nothing at all her eyes seemed to be dispensing reassurance.

  “You want some tea?”

  “No thanks.” Bubba rubbed his eyes. “I feel like I’ve seen more of the seamy side of life in the last month than I saw during the whole time I was in the army.”

  “What happens if you don’t find him?”

  “Oh I’ll find him. I’ll find him or I’ll go to my grave trying. It’s too good a joke not to see it through. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Ruthie turn Bellevue into some kind of plastic paradise for stockbrokers.”

  “Is that what she wants to do?”

  “Probably. She’d sell the whole place for land fill if it brought the best price.”

  “It would be sad to see this place change. I like it so much, I think Lee has decided to settle down here.”

  Before Bubba could express the genuine pleasure he felt at this prospect, the door to the hallway opened and Lydia appeared carrying her kerosene lamp. She held it above her head in front of her and stood frozen, listening for sounds in the distance and apparently oblivious to the presence of Bubba and Kathleen before her very eyes. They looked at her without saying anything, and eventually she lowered her lamp and turned to go back through the door.

  Kathleen glanced at Bubba as though to let him know she shared his feelings for Lydia. He knew Kathleen accepted Lydia just as she seemed to embrace everything else at Bellevue, but he wanted to explain Lydia to her to make it a little easier.

  “She thinks the Yankees are coming.”

  “I know. Who is Captain James, though?”

  Bubba smiled. It had been a long time since he really thought about how an outsider might perceive Lydia. She was still an imposing figure, cruising through the house like the ironclad Merrimac. In her day she could be downright intimidating with her majestic stride and the haughty voice which dismissed all consideration of anything except the urgent preparations for the End of the World as represented by the invasion of crass commercialism from the North. There had even been a time when her discourses on the worshippers of Mammon had carried the added weight of rationality, but over the years she had gradually refined her vision to the point where she now moved in an hermetically sealed world of dread and hope. Dread that every nightfall would bring the Yankee hordes, that every sound from beyond the house signaled the imminent devastation of everything refined and beautiful. And hope that every dawn would usher home her beloved – if not triumphant at least fit enough to take her away and protect her.

  “Lydia’s never gotten over her first imaginary love affair. I think Captain James rode with Jeb Stuart, but it’s always been a bit unclear to me.”

  Kathleen nodded as though she understood. Who knows maybe she did. If Bubba learned anything from all his years on the bench, it was never to assume anything about another human being and never to pass judgment on the ability of the human mind to enter realms way beyond the mundane pathways of his own.

  Bubba took his leave of Kathleen and began his long slow journey up the stairs to bed. In the hallway at the top of the stairs he was greeted by Ruthie, who emerged from a bedroom wearing her bathrobe.

  “Have you found him yet?”

  “Hello, Ruthie. What a pleasant surprise. Are William and the children with you?”

  “Have you found Foster?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bubba said this as though he was sure Ruthie shared his determination to find Foster. There was still enough Southern lawyer left in his blood for him to enjoy a round of verbal tennis even at four in the morning – especially when his opponent was as spirited a player as Ruthie. Relieved that the ball was still in play, she returned his volley with a long, high, solicitous lob.

  “Bubba, honey, just look at how exhausted you are. There’s no point wearing yourself to a frazzle looking for him just because of crazy notion The Old Man had when he scribbled that will. How much longer do you intend to go on?”

  “’Til I find him.”

  She walked with him as he continued towards his room.

  “Don’t you think we should start thinking about what to do with the estate?”

  “Nope.”

  Ruthie could no longer contain her impulse to rush the net.

  “Well, I’ll tell you something, Bubba. If you think I am going to sit by and let this estate go down the drain while you go traipsing all over the South looking for some no-count beatnik, you are sadly mistaken.”

  Now it was Bubba’s turn to lob. He opened the door to his room and then turned as though he had just remembered a piece of news Ruthie would be glad to hear.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you about our latest hot lead. That trumpet player in the penitentiary replied to my letter. Said he knows for a fact Foster was in Charleston last November and gave me the phone number of a lady in New Orleans…”

  Ruthie turned away muttering a half-audible departing shot as she retreated.
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  “Even if you do find him, we’re contesting the will.”