Читать книгу Fri Nov 22 00:00:00 CST 2019 - Bryan Woolley - Страница 16

JONATHAN

Jonathan Waters poured the milk into the pan and set it on the stove and got the jar of Ovaltine down from the shelf. He got down the silver beer stein with J.L.F. engraved on it in Old English and spooned Ovaltine into it. When the milk was warm, he poured it over the Ovaltine and stirred it until the crystals dissolved, then set the stein on a small silver tray and carried it into the front hall. He always used the front stairs when it was late and nobody was around. They weren’t as steep as the servants’ stairs.

Late at night, when it was so quiet, the Fisher house reminded him of a funeral home, although it was more elegant than any he had visited. The lights turned low, the reflections of electric candles in the huge, gilt-framed mirrors, the heavy velvet draperies and their heavy gold fringes and tassels seemed the perfect setting for corpses in mahogany caskets.

Jonathan’s slippers whispered up the curve in the wide stairs and down the wide hallway to the front corner bedroom. He knocked and waited for Mr. J.L.’s brusque “Come in! Come in!” He opened the door quietly and closed it quietly. He couldn’t see Mr. J.L., but he knew he was sitting in the velvet wing chair in front of the fireplace, hidden by the chair’s high back. Jonathan waited in front of the door for the rest of the ritual.

“Is the place secure?” the voice asked from behind the chair.

“Yessir. Calvin locked up about three hours ago, sir.”

“Are the yard lights on?”

“Yessir. Calvin turned them on, too. Everything’s just fine, sir.”

“Good. Good.”

That was Jonathan’s signal to advance and place Ovaltine on the small table beside the chair. Mr. J.L. was staring into the flames in the fireplace, his bare, bony feet resting on the velvet ottoman in front of the chair, his hands clasped over the maroon silk robe covering his round belly. In the big chair, he looked as small as a child.

“Anything else, sir?” Jonathan asked. “Except turning down your bed, I mean.”

“Throw another log on the fire, Jonathan, and sit down.”

Jonathan folded the fire screen aside and selected the smallest log from the stack on the hearth and laid it across the andirons. Sparks flew up the chimney. He jabbed at the fresh log with the poker until it nestled comfortably among the remains of the others, then replaced the screen and sat down on the small wooden stool by the rack of fire tools.

“Miss Anna has retired, has she?” Mr. J.L. asked.

“Yessir. Almost four hours ago.”

“Good. Good. Resting comfortably, is she?”

“Far as I know, sir.”

Mr. J.L. hadn’t looked at Jonathan. The fire brightened his watery blue eyes and bald, knobby head. “Are you a Christian, Jonathan?” he asked.

Jonathan had dreaded the question. It meant that Mr. J.L. was in a talking mood. “Oh, yessir,” he replied. “You know that.”

Mr. J.L. glanced up at him sharply. “What church?”

“Why, African Methodist Episcopal, sir. All my life.”

“Ah, yes. Methodist. Good folks, Methodists.”

“Yessir. You better drink your Ovaltine before it cools off.”

Mr. J.L. lifted the stein and sucked at it. “Nice and warm, Jonathan, as always.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. J.L. stared into the fire. “Calvin says some colored are Catholics, Jonathan. Is that true?”

“Why, yessir, I believe that’s right. I don’t know any, but I believe that’s right.”

“Why’s that, you reckon?

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe they always been, like I always been Methodist.”

“Mmm! They’re in on the conspiracy, I guess, like the rest of them. That Martin Luther King’s one of them, isn’t he?”

“Nosir. Dr. King’s a Baptist, I believe. Yessir, he’s a Baptist, I’m almost sure.”

“I mean, he’s in on the conspiracy, Jonathan. What do you think all that rioting is about over in Alabama? Coloreds eating with whites at Woolsworth’s? In a pig’s eye! What’s he a doctor of, anyway, Jonathan?”

“I don’t know, sir. Preaching, I guess.”

“Preaching! Rabble-rousing, you mean! Rioting! Agitating!”

Jonathan always hated this part of the conversation. He had once sent a check for five dollars to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. He still worried that Mr. J.L. might find that out, although he had burned his canceled check as soon as his bank statement arrived.

“What is it those people want, Jonathan? What do they really want?

“Why, I don’t know sir. I sure don’t.”

“At least George Wallace is standing up to them. That’s more than the nervous Nellies who run this town are doing. I never thought I’d see the day when coloreds would walk right into Neiman-Marcus and sit down at a table in the Zodiac and eat. Did you, Jonathan?”

“Nosir. I never did.”

“Jew store. They’re in the conspiracy, Jonathan. Just sit down and eat. Where was the Citizens Charter Association then?” Mr. J.L. laughed. “The big dudes. The old movers and shakers, eh, Jonathan? Pissants! Can you see Buck Pool putting up with the likes of that?”

“Nosir. I sure can’t.”

“Have I told you about Buck Pool, Jonathan?”

“Oh yessir.”

“Well, Buck and I were doing some oil prospecting down in Mexico back in—back in ‘sixteen, I think it was—and these bandits came upon us. Villistas. Muy malos hombres, Jonathan. Six of them. They wanted our horses…. You sure I haven’t told you about Buck, Jonathan?

“Oh, yessir. You told me about Mr. Pool, all right.”

“Well, anyway, Buck just cut down on them with his Winchester and killed two of them. Just like that”—Mr. J.L. snapped his fingers twice. “The others turned tail and ran, and Buck and I wound up with two extra horses.” Mr. J.L. laughed. “It was hotter than hell down in Mexico in those days, Jonathan.”

“Yessir. I’ve heard about that.”

“Old Buck just cut down on them and killed two. A Winchester is a mighty good rifle, Jonathan. People pay attention to a Winchester.

“Yessir. I reckon they do.”

Mr. J.L. swallowed the last of the Ovaltine and set the stein on the tray.

“You ready for me to turn down your bed now, sir?” Jonathan asked.

“In a minute, Jonathan. Calvin Coolidge was the best president we ever had. If he had served another term, there wouldn’t have been a Depression or a Roosevelt. Do you know what he did one time, Jonathan? He went to church by himself one Sunday, see, and when he got back, Mrs. Coolidge asked him, ‘What did the preacher preach about today, Calvin?’ And he said, ‘Sin.’ And she said, ‘What did he say about sin, Calvin?’ And he said, ‘He’s agin it.’” Mr. J.L. slapped his knee. “Got right to the heart of the matter, didn’t he? God, for a president like that! You know who would make a fine president, Jonathan? Billy Graham. Billy Graham, and Senator Goldwater for vice president. Who could vote against a ticket like that? Would coloreds vote for a ticket like that, Jonathan?”

“Why, yessir, I reckon they would.”

“Except for the Catholic coloreds. How many do you reckon they are, Jonathan?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know none of them.”

“And the Catholic whites. And the Red whites. Get that, Jonathan? Red whites? Ha! And the Jews. But they’re all in it. They’re all against us. All against America. All trying to get our horses, aren’t they, Jonathan?”

“Yessir. I reckon so.”

“Well, God will not be mocked, will He?”

“Oh, nosir."

“Nosir. Martin Luther King ought to put that in his pipe and smoke it. God will not be mocked. Buck Pool’s dead, you know. Fell off a derrick out in the Permian Basin in—I don’t remember—long years ago.

“Yessir.”

“Broke every bone in his body. Limp as a dishrag when we picked him up.”

“Yessir. You told me about that, sir.”

“I thought he was never going to hit the ground, Jonathan. He just hung up there, like a hawk, you know? His shirt sleeves just a-flapping.”

“May I turn down the bed now, sir?”

“Yes, Jonathan. I’m ready.”

Jonathan’s slippers whisper across the thick carpet to the old four-poster. He turned back the crocheted counterpane and the heavy white wool blanket and the white sheet. He fluffed the big feather pillow. “It’s ready for you, sir,” he said.

Mr. J.L. rose and shuffled quickly across to the bed, untied the fringed sash of his robe, and Jonathan lifted it from his shoulders and laid it on the chair. He lifted the bedcovers, and Mr. J.L. sank into the deep feather mattress with a sigh. Jonathan arranged the sheet and blanket over him and folded the counterpane back to the foot of the bed.

“The Ovaltine was nice and warm, Jonathan,” Mr. J.L. said. “As always.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Who, sir?”

“But we’ll wind up with the extra horses, won’t we, Jonathan?”

“Oh, yessir.”

“Miss Anna’s resting comfortably, is she?”

“Yessir. She’s fine.”

“Well, goodnight, Jonathan.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

The suite was cramped and musty and painted green. Its windows overlooked a parking lot and the neon of the Greyhound and Trailways stations, a movie theater, a garage, and two loan companies. Five floors above, in the more spacious Will Rogers Suite, Lyndon Johnson hooted and hollered with local party chieftains and old political cronies. In the Texas Hotel Coffee Shop, John Connally held forth for the press and anyone else who would listen, delivering clarion calls for party unity.

She was exhausted from San Antonio, Houston, the motorcades, the plane flights. She laid out her clothes for the next day and joined her husband.

“You were great today,” he said.