Читать книгу Country Ham - John Quincy MacPherson - Страница 12

When Ham showed up late for poker night on the Sunday after the Coach Groves’s incident, he discovered his little brother, Michael Allen, had taken his place.

“Ah Ham, I thought you warn’t gonna come!” Michael Allen whined.

“Thanks for your concern little brother,” Ham retorted. He sat on another chair on a pillow he had brought to sit on. Even though it had been nearly a week, he was still very sore.

Carl asked him right away, “What happened to you, Ham?”

“Oh, it’s nothin’ Uncle Carl.”

“Sonuvabitch Trey Groves broke a baseball bat over his ass,” Thom Jeff said, counting out his twenty-dollar entry fee.

“What?” Bill, Mack, and Carl said simultaneously. Dubya and Brother Bob already knew the story. Thom Jeff proceeded to tell the story, ending with his threat to Groves.

Having heard the story several times, Michael Allen was bored with it. “Grandpa, go on with your story!” Michael Allen pleaded.

“What are y’all talkin’ ‘bout?” Ham asked, anxious also to change the subject.

“Mike Al wants to know how I started the poker group.” Dubya replied.

Ham knew that was a good story. “Go on then.”

“Well, like I was sayin’, I decided to ‘semi-retire’ ‘bout seven years ago. My first project was to turn this ole’ tobacco barn into a poker room. Always wanted one.” Ham thought Grandpa Dubya was starting to sound like Uncle Carl. “We warn’t raisin’ as much tobacco anymore and didn’t really need the barn. So I made two rooms—the one out there for my landscapin’ business,” he pointed toward the other room, “and this one for playin’ poker.”

“I brung a fridge and small freezer for ice cream and what nots. Your Grandma didn’t say nothin’. But when I installed the window AC unit over there, she got suspicious. Then when I brung this felt covered table over from the Cherokee Injuns, she come runnin’ down here. Says, ‘Dubya, are you makin’ a poker room?’ ‘Well, I do believe I am, Cornelia,’ I says. ‘I give up drinkin’ and cigarettes when we married, I just can’t give up seven card stud too!’ I knew she wouldn’t protest too much, ‘cause Cornelia likes a good game of cards much as anybody.” Dubya winked at Brother Bob. Everybody laughed.

Bill said, “Dubya ante up.”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Dubya apologized and threw a blue chip in the pot. “Even bought these chips from the Cherokee chief. He got ‘em from the ole’ King’s Crown Casino in Las Vegas, what closed down six months after it opened in 1964.

“I promised her no alcohol and no cigarettes in the poker room, a promise I’ve kept all these years, despite resistance on some parts.” He looked at Uncle Carl and Thom Jeff. “And no cussin’.” He looked at Brother Bob, who informed Dubya after his first profanity-laced outburst that one of the most important lessons he learned in seminary was to distinguish between whom the minister could cuss with and with whom he could not! Of course, no one broke the no swearing rule more than Dubya himself.

“Then it was a matter of choosin’ the group. Handpicked ever’ one of you. I decided to call it the ‘Young Men’s Christian Association,’ case anybody got suspicious. Had a plaque engraved with that on it and the year it was founded 1969.” Everyone knew that because the plaque was nailed to the door of the tobacco barn. “And I put those blinds up in case the sheriff was to drive by.” Dubya pointed to the drawn blinds. He had an irrational paranoia about being arrested for illegal gambling. “Once Harold died, I replaced him with Ham here, who has turned into be a mighty fine poker player!”

“When do I get to join the group, Grandpa?” Michael Allen asked.

“We’ll see, Mike Al. You’re already my number one substitute.”

“Your bet, Dubya,” Bill reminded Dubya to keep the game moving along. Annoyed, Dubya pulled a folded sheet of legal sized paper from his overall pocket and studied it. He did that about twice a night. Nobody except Dubya and Ham knew what was on the sheet, though there were plenty of guesses. The most common conjecture was that Dubya kept a list of which hands beat which in seven card stud. He continued to study the sheet, holding it so no one could see.

“C’mon and play, Dubya,” Carl said, who was also getting anxious, especially since he was holding a full house. What Dubya was looking at was a list of the regular poker players with their tendencies. In a small, neat handwriting, Dubya had written:

YMCA Poker Players

1. Thom Jeff (known to play for locks; will fold early in the hand if he did not get at least a pair in the first three cards of seven card stud. The drunker he gets, the more conservative his card playing.)

2. Carl Robinette (an eternal optimist. rather go for the inside straight or some other poor percentage hand. Wins more times than he should and pisses off other players, especially Thom Jeff playing locks. The drunker Carl gets, the more reckless his card playing.)

3. Brother Bob (learned in college; plays by the book.)

4. Kenneth “Bill” Fagg Andrews (unpredictable poker player, and therefore dangerous. If it looks like he has a full house, he might have nothing; or, if his face cards show nothing he could be sitting on a full house. Talks all the time, tells bad jokes. Is distracting—maybe on purpose?)

5. Mack Smith (sawyer at mill. best player, next to me [Dubya wrote]. Plays percentages. wins more often than he lost.)

6. Harold—unknown tendencies. After he died in 1972, Harold’s name was scratched off, and Ham was added. Beside Ham’s name, Dubya wrote simply, “Promising.”

Once Dubya confided to Ham that he sometimes had to look at the sheet to remember the names of the players around the table. Getting old is a bitch, Ham thought.

“Make up your mind, Dubya,” Bill said, “You been studyin’ that card the way ole’ Crum does down at UNC when he’s tryin’ to decide what to call on a third down with twenty yards to go. Never works out for him.”

Dubya looked up and said, “I fold.” Bill and Carl let out a sigh of exasperation.

Feeling stiffness in his buttocks despite the pillow, Ham stood and went over to the snack table and grabbed a moon pie and a Cheerwine from the fridge (he had heard “Yankees” would drive all night from the Northeast buy cases of Cheerwine and then drive all the way back home—stupid Yankees!). Then Ham walked over to the Wurlitzer jukebox. Dubya kept the jukebox full of Country and Western records, mostly Patsy Cline and Jim Reeves, his favorite artists. Each player had his favorite tune. Brother Bob loved Patsy Cline’s “She’s Got You.” Mack chose the only R & B song in the Wurlitzer, “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” by Otis Redding. Dubya loved “Danny Boy,” by Jim Reeves. Carl’s favorite was “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. Cornelia and Ham liked anything by Jim Reeves—she because she loved “Gentleman Jim’s” rich baritone voice and thought he was handsome, he because Reeves had been a professional baseball player before pursuing his musical career fulltime. Patsy and Gentleman Jim had died in airplane crashes within a year of each other.

Ham pressed K-9, the last slot in the Wurlitzer. The list said it contained “La Bamba” by Ritchie Valens (another victim of a plane crash in 1959 that also claimed the life of Buddy Holly), but nobody ever played the song. Several weeks ago, he had secretly replaced “La Bamba” with another forty-five rpm single. It began to blare over the jukebox:

Young man, there’s no need to feel down.

I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.

I said, young man, ‘cause you’re in a new town

There’s no need to be unhappy.

“What in tarnation is that, Ham?” Dubya asked.

“Listen, Grandpa.” Ham pleaded. About that time, the Village People belted out:

It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A

It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A.

“See they’re singin’ about the YMCA. I thought it could kinda be our theme song. Maybe play it at the beginnin’ and end of each Sunday night.”

“I’ve heard this song,” Brother Bob said. “It’s new, right?”

“Yep,” Ham said. “Just released a couple of months ago.”

Bob continued, “I read an article about it in the New York Times recently. Seems a couple members of the Village People are gay, and the gay community is adopting the song as their anthem.”

“Gay whats?” Dubya said.

“That’s what homosexuals call themselves now, Dubya,” Carl offered.

“Well, Ham, we can’t have no homosexual anthem as our theme song! Take that record out of the Wurlitzer right now!” Dubya commanded, as if somehow the record was defiling the very essence of the jukebox.

“I’m sorry, Grandpa. I had no idea. I just like the song and all.” Ham stammered and removed the record from the jukebox.

Brother Bob intervened. “Look, I wasn’t making a judgment. Who cares what consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedrooms?”

“It’s against the Bible.” Thom Jeff spoke for the first time since telling the Coach Groves story.

“What do you care about what’s in the Bible, Thom Jeff? You don’t go to church!” Carl challenged.

“The Bible supports slavery, but Christians nowadays don’t support that, certainly not at the church your family attends, Thom Jeff,” Brother Bob said quietly. Mack nodded in agreement. “And we have women deacons at Second Little Rock Baptist Church, and the Bible seems to be against that too. The Bible requires interpretation. One day, gays will have the same rights as everybody else, maybe not in our lifetimes, but it will happen. One day they will even be allowed to marry legally.”

“Well, I just don’t think it’s right. And you don’t need no inTERpretation to see the Bible is agin’ it!” Thom Jeff said.

“I’ll have to agree with you on this one, Thom Jeff,” Dubya pronounced, looking over at Brother Bob. “Let’s talk about somethin’ else.” Brother Bob shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands.

“Wait, wait,” Bill said. “This reminds me of a story I heard over at Big Mama’s house.”

Big Mama was a woman in Ashe County that Bill had been having an affair with for years. Nobody knew why. Bill’s wife, Jeannette, was pretty and sweet, and Big Mama, at least according to Bill, was, well, big and not very pretty. But she was a willing partner, which was what mattered most to Bill. Bill was on thin ice; he knew Dubya didn’t approve of him speaking of Big Mama in the poker room (and he wouldn’t have done so if Cornelia had been present). But Bill plowed ahead:

“See, there was this woman named Mary Margaret who lived in South Georgia. She was rich and lived on a plantation. Her and her sister took a trip to New York City and when she got back she invited all her girlfriends to come over for Mint Juleps so she could tell them about her trip. ‘Do tell us all about y’all’s trip, Mary Margaret.’ (Bill mimicked.)

‘Oh, darlin’, the trip was fantastic! I saw so many wonderful, wonderful things. The Empire State buildin’. Central Park. Park Avenue. The shoppin’ was outta this world!’ Mary Margaret stopped and looked around, leaned forward, and said real quiet like, ‘But I did see some things, I never ever thought I’d see.’

‘Oh pray tell, what did you see?’

‘Well, did you know in New York City, there are women who kiss other women?’

‘Oh my. No, no. What do you call them?’

‘They call them, lesbians.’ (Bill said the last word in his very best Southern accent, which being a native of North Carolina, was pretty good.)

‘Oh dear, oh dear! Tell us what else you saw, Mary Margaret?’

‘Well, did you know that in New York City, there are men who kiss other men?!’

‘Oh dear me, dear me.’

‘What do you call them, Mary Margaret?’

‘They call them, homo-sexuahls!’

‘Oh my! Oh my! Did you see anythin’ else, Mary Margaret?’

‘Well, now, yes I did. Yes, I did. Did you know that in New York City, there are men who kiss women in their private parts?’

‘Oh. My. God. Mary Margaret, what do you call them?’

Mary Margaret laughed and said, ‘Shuga’, when I caught my breath, I called him, Precious!’”

The poker room erupted in laughter.

The conversation drifted to politics. It was an election year, and the North Carolina presidential primary had been held the previous Tuesday, the day of the Coach Groves incident. For that reason, Ham had not been able to participate in the first national vote for which he was eligible. All of the YMCA group were “yellow dog” Democrats. They would all rather vote for a yellow dog than vote for a Republican, though apparently Thom Jeff would also vote for a yellow dog before he voted for a black Democrat running for office. Thom Jeff had voted for George Wallace; everybody else had voted for the Georgia peanut farmer, Jimmy Carter. North Carolina’s favorite son, former governor Terry Sanford, had dropped out of the race before the primary season even began.

“I like Carter,” Mack said. “Most of the church members down at Second Little Rock Baptist Church like Carter, too. And everybody is purty concerned, since Wallace beat Carter in South Carolina last month.”

“I think Wallace will be out of the race soon enough,” Brother Bob predicted.

“Wallace is a racist, Thom Jeff. In his ‘naugural address as governor, he said, ‘Segregation, now segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.’ How could you vote for him?” Carl asked.

“No he’s not a racist. He’s a segregationist—”

“What the hell is the difference?!” Carl demanded.