Читать книгу Stradivarius - Donald P. Ladew - Страница 14

If Miss Bentley thought Ailey would do better, she wasn’t prepared for how much better. She never had a student who learned faster than she could teach. He was raw, impatient, and she, a southern lady of quality: patient, perfectly mannered, and intelligent. She had taught little anarchists for twenty years. She met his demands with her own and in the process he learned manners more fitted to the nineteenth century.

It never went smooth. If he was rude, she ignored him until he apologized. He would scowl, sulk, and cry bitter complaints. Stubborn, volatile, and finally penitent when he realized she couldn’t be swayed by drama. He had to know and she had the knowledge.

In a year Ailey learned every song in the music books, played every scale. The quality of his tone improved beyond recognition. Miss Bentley taught him the basics of music, how to read notes, the values of tempo. He grasped musical concepts so fast her well-prepared methods of explanation weren’t necessary.

Miss Iris spun in a whirlwind, helpless to do more than hang on and see where it all went.

When Ailey was seven, Granpa Joe Barkwood went to sleep on the porch and never woke up. There being no other relatives, Ailey stayed with Sammy Sue. She was going on eighty and had all she could do to keep him fed and clothed. No one grasped the reality of the old man’s death.

The Christian women of Luthersville who might have taken Ailey and molded him into their own unhappy ways, didn’t come around to take him in hand for his own good.

Sammy Sue said he had kin around somewhere, but she didn’t know how to get in touch. She knew the story about Nathan Cole’s strange son who went to live on the mountain behind the farm, but she wasn’t having her Ailey looked after by no crazy man.

At the beginning of the next school year, Miss Bentley made her usual visit to the Barkwood farm, not because Ailey might not show up that fall -- he was far and away the best student in the class. She knew Uncle Joe Barkwood had died, and she knew what would happen when the busybodies in town found out.

Sammy Sue put on her Sunday dress and made lemonade. Ailey joined them on the porch.

“Well, Sammy, I heard in town that Mr. Joe died. I am sorry for you both. I didn’t know him very well, but people spoke well of him, very well.”

“Yes, ma’am, he was a fine man. Ailey and I miss him.”

“Sammy, I don’t mean to pry, but how have you been getting along, what do you do for money.”

“Mistuh Joe, he knowed he was goin to the Lord. He sold some land a few years back, and he left the farm to the boy. I been gettin my government check regular. My daughter comes by once a week and does the shoppin’, and her husband, George, the fixin’ that needs doin. I been leasing him a hundred acres down by the grove. That give me some income to look after Ailey. We don’t have a lot, Miss Bentley, but we gets along.”

Sammy Sue shifted in her rocking chair nervously, as though she could see what was coming.

“Sammy Sue, I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong. I think most people would have done less. You’ve done fine with Ailey, but don’t you think he’d be better off living in town?”

“Who he goin’ to live with? He don’t have no kin over there.”

“He could stay with me, if you don’t mind. I have plenty of room. Sammy, you have to admit you aren’t a young girl anymore. What if something were to happen to Ailey?”

Sammy Sue didn’t say anything. Two big tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

“Now Sammy, please don’t be upset. I’m saying these things because I am truly concerned about Ailey.”

“Miz Bentley, I don’t want to live in town.” Ailey moved closer to Sammy Sue.

“Oh, Ailey, of course you don’t.” Miss Bentley looked across the fields. “It’s very nice here. But there are problems you don’t understand. Sammy Sue knows what I mean.” The two women looked at each other.

“Miss Bentley, I knows you mean to do right by Ailey, but I’m more kin to the boy than you or any of the white folk in Luthersville. Babies are babies, white or black. They needs their own. Strangers don’t smell right, don’t sound right.”

There is was, on the table. Ailey looked puzzled. This wasn’t something he understood. He’d heard the kids making jokes about niggers, but he ignored them. He didn’t know what they were talking about. Sammy Sue was Sammy Sue, as close to a mother as he’d ever have.

“Sammy, supposing he was to stay with me through the week and I brought him here on the weekends? What I want to do is stop trouble before it has a chance to start.”

Sammy Sue barely whispered. “Alright, Miz Bentley.” Ailey started to protest.

“Ailey, you do like Miz Bentley says. She’s right, I cain’t do as good for you as I should no more.” She chuckled, not one to stay sad. “Boy, I get tired just watchin’ you. Don’t you worry none, Miz Bentley be quality folk, she’ll look after you proper. You come home Saturday and Sunday, I make you greens and chicken, maybe even a big batch of ‘lasses cookies. We can sit on de poch and listen to WNEW New York. I swear, ah’m gittin so I like that music.”

So Ailey went to live with Miss Iris Bentley during the week, and each weekend she drove him to his grandfather’s farm.

Ailey needed the forest and fields. They were as much a part of his existence as his music. When he wasn’t practicing or eating all the things he missed during the week, he walked in the forest on the mountain. There was a pond half way up the south side full of catfish and bream.

Perfect Indian Summer; air crisp as a new dollar bill, and leaves just beginning to change. Ailey went to the farm for his weekend.

He walked through a stand of cattails and the squishy black mud was cool on his feet. He carried a cane pole and an old tomato can full of worms. Near the edge of the pond he waded to a flat rock close to the cattails. Line in the water, worm working hard down there on the bottom, bobber making small circles on the mirror-like surface, Ailey sang in a loud voice.

This was life as sweet, and right as it ever got. A half mile up the mountain in a stand of ash and maple, Luther moved quietly, as comfortable in the forest as the deer. A buck had been hanging around the area and there wasn’t much meat left in cave behind his cabin. Luther was partial to venison.

Squirrels chattered, and the click of their claws on tree bark fit well with the other sounds of the forest. Faintly in the distance Luther heard singing. At first he thought some fool had brought a transistor radio into the forest. People did that from time to time, though for the life of him he couldn’t understand why.

He moved in that direction then realized it came from the pond. He didn’t hurry, he didn’t need to. He sensed the source wasn’t going anywhere.

Luther came out at the edge of the pond a hundred yards from Ailey, who leaned back resting on his elbows and sang at the top of his voice. Loud as it was, it seemed natural in the amphitheatre formed by the pond and the surrounding trees.

Luther stayed back out of sight in the trees. He sat down and took an apple from his pocket and cut chunks from it with a bone-handled Buck knife. He watched Ailey lazily in the afternoon sun.

Ailey was oblivious. He didn’t even notice the twitch in his line. Luther smiled and whispered.

“You are about to get a surprise, boy, an’ you don’t even know it.”

Something tugged the line once, hard, then headed for the other shore with no intention of stopping. Ailey was so surprised he dropped the pole and the fish dragged it into the water.

Ailey dived for it and fell into the pond sputtering and thrashing. He grabbed the pole and tried to stop the fish.

“Whoa, you dang fool fish. Where you goin?”

In the trees Luther laughed out loud. Ailey had a hold on the pole and wasn’t letting go. The water was up to his waist. Ailey grabbed the line and pulled it in as fast as he could.

Luther realized he must have a real granddaddy of a catfish on the line, might go ten pounds or more. All of a sudden Luther stopped laughing, dropped the apple, and ran through the trees toward the edge of the pond. He’d been in there a year ago stalking a bear. By that same rock, he’d stepped in and sunk into the mud over the top of his boots. Like to never got out. Boots were still there as far as he knew.

Through the trees he saw the boy sink in deeper; couldn’t go forward or back, but he wouldn’t let go of the pole.

From the edge of the rock, Luther leaned forward, hands held out to Ailey.

“C’mon boy, gimme your hands or your gonna sink right on down to China.”

Ailey reached out one hand, he wouldn’t let go of the pole. Luther pulled slow. He could feel Ailey coming free, still clutching the fishing pole. Once Luther got him up on the rock he sat him down.

“Now, pull that fish on outa there before he pulls you in agin’,” he laughed.

Ailey pulled with all his might, muttering dark threats all the while. He got up and stepped backward off the rock to the shore. Once there he dragged a fat catfish, close to ten pounds after him. Still towing the fish, he walked back through the cattails onto solid ground. He thumped the fish six or eight times on the head with a rock until it quit wriggling.

“Boy oh boy,” -- his eyes were big -- “that’s the biggest one I ever caught. Must weight...” he had to think about it for a minute, “twenty or thirty ton.” Ailey hadn’t been paying that much attention when the class learned about the weight of things.

Luther didn’t correct him. “You got a knife so’s you can clean him?”

Ailey frowned. “No, sir, ah don’t. I’ll take him on down to the house.”

Luther took out his Buck knife and opened it with what Ailey thought was a very satisfying snap. He handed it to Ailey haft first.

“It’s real sharp, so have a care.”

Ailey looked at it longingly, then gutted the fish. He took it down to the edge of the pond and cleaned it and the knife carefully. He figured out how to close the knife, then brought it and the fish back to the where Luther sat.

“You must be Little Joe Barkwood’s boy. I knowed your Daddy many years ago. Hear your granddaddy passed a year back. I am Sorry to hear it, I liked that man, though he could be some stubborn. Reckon you got some of that from him.”

“Are you the cr--the man that lives up top the mountain?” Ailey asked.

“I am. You think I’m crazy, boy?”

Ailey wound the fishing line around a piece of cardboard. He looked directly at Luther, considering.

“Nope.” He went on rolling up the fishing line. “Is your name, Cole?”

“Uh-huh. I’m Martin Luther Cole. What’s your name?”

“Ailey, Ailey Parkman Barkwood.”

“Well Ailey, you ‘n me are first cousins. ‘Cept for some distant folks over by Elkins, yore my only kin.”

Ailey thought about it for a minute, then smiled.

“Aren’t you too old to be a cousin?”

“Nope, but you can call me Uncle Luther if it’d be more comfortable.”

Ailey guessed Luther meant to have fun with him, but he didn’t mind. He’d already decided without reservation, the way children do, that he liked Uncle Luther. He hadn’t offered to pull in his fish. That showed a nicety of understanding about what’s important that few adults would have known.

“Okay.”

“Who you live with now your grandpa’s gone?” Luther asked.

“On weekends, I stay with Sammy Sue on the farm down yonder,” he pointed off to the south. “Weekdays I stay with Miz Bentley in Luthersville. She’s the school teacher.”

“Is she agreeable?”

“Uh, huh, she’s nice. She let me have a violin someone left in a closet over at the school, and all kinds of music. Been teachin’ me to read that music too.”

Luther looked at Ailey for a long moment, like someone he’d been expecting but didn’t know what he’d look like.

Luther stood, stretched, and looked around slowly.

“You got strong legs, Ailey?”

“Sure. I can run faster’n them two dumb hounds of mine.”

“You hungry,” Luther asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m goin’ along home, git that deer tomorrow I guess. You come with me, I’ll cook that cat fish in corn meal, make a few dozen biscuits. Got twenty pounds of new honey from the broken oak over by forty-mile crick.”

“Okay, Uncle Luther.”

Luther set an easy pace so Ailey could keep up. Unlike most boys his age, Ailey didn’t feel the need to chatter. He felt at home with the natural sounds of the forest. And since no one else, including the dogs, seemed to like his loud singing, he figured Uncle Luther might not like it that much either.

When they had walked two miles or so, Luther heard Ailey puffing like a truck with a busted gasket. Luther stopped and looked at the ground, pretending he’d seen some tracks.

“Deer come through here this time of year.” Luther said. They were in a grove of oak and acorn husks littered the leathery carpet of leaves.

“They eat the acorns, least those the squirrels don’t git.”

Luther took his time looking around, watching Ailey out of the corner of his eye. When he thought Ailey was rested, he pointed up through the trees.

“Not much further, maybe five hundred yards,” and moved slowly in that direction.

It was in Luther’s nature to lead. He knew the condition, the state of mind of those he led and adjusted his intentions to ease and preserve.

Ailey stopped at the edge of the clearing. The cabin was tucked in next to a pile of granite boulders. A faint trail of smoke came from a chimney at one end. There were flowers in abundance and wild rose bushes climbed the wall near the door.

Ailey thought the cabin would be a lot smaller, like some of those places south of town. It was big, five or six rooms, and made of stone.

Later, filled with cat fish, green beans, four biscuits with wild honey washed down with cold goats milk, Ailey could barely hold himself up. His head drooped with the sheer weight of Luther’s cooking.

Luther had built a bench all along the front of the cabin. Ailey sat beside Luther and watched him roll a cigarette. He did it much as his father had before him. Ailey’s eyes closed and he lay down on the bench as limp as a fed cat. He slept within minutes.

Luther got up after a moment, went in the cabin, brought out a blanket and spread it over Ailey. He sat at the other end of the bench and watched the boy. He thought of his wife buried by the garden in back of the house.

They wanted a baby but it hadn’t happened. Luther looked out across the spread of green turning gold.

“Lord...I’d sure like to know what yore up to. I knowed you are testin’ me, like you done Job. This little boy plays the fiddle. Ain’t no way that’s an accident. You want I should give him the one you put in my care? Is that it?”

Luther listened for the voice of God, as he often did.

“Alright...I will wait. You know I can do that, but you makin’ it awful hard.” Luther looked down at Ailey and spoke aloud.

“You’ve got sand, boy. I like that. That big ole catfish like to pulled you all the way across the pond.” Luther smiled, “and you sing louder’n anyone I ever heard.”

Ailey smiled in his sleep, probably catching the catfish all over again.

An hour later, at two minutes till two, Ailey woke with a start. He looked around, saw his Uncle Luther sitting at the end of the bench dozing.

“Excuse me.” Luther didn’t stir. “Excuse me,” he said in a louder voice. Luther woke up.

“Darn, I guess that cat fish got to me too,” Luther said.

“Do you have a watch, Uncle Luther?” Ailey asked.

“Uh, huh.” He went in the cabin and came out a few minutes later. “It’s almost two o’clock.”

Ailey jumped up. “Uh, Uncle Luther, I’m sorry, but I got to be goin’. It’s time for my music. Sammy Sue will be a waitin for me.”

“Well, if you got to hurry I can drive you down in the truck. Shouldn’t take more’n ten, fifteen minutes.”

In Luther’s pickup, Ailey explained all about WNEW and the New York Philharmonic. Luther listened. Missus Cole liked that kind of music.

“Well, you know where I live, boy. We’re kinfolks. Yore welcome up on my mountain anytime. Might be, some time you could bring your fiddle, play me a tune.”