Part 21 (1/2)

Randy unloaded. He had expected that Lib would be down at the dock to greet him, or certainly watching from the captain's walk. Coming home with such rich cargo, he was chagrined. He lifted the washtub to the dock and then two fat sacks of salt. Fifty pounds, at least, he thought. It would last for months and when it was gone there was an unlimited supply waiting on the sh.o.r.es of Blue Crab Pool. He said, ”So long, Sam. See you tonight.”

The Admiral pushed away from the dock and Randy picked up the washtub, deliberately spilled some of the water that had kept the crabs alive, and walked to the house.

The kitchen was empty except for four very large black ba.s.s in the sink. He lifted the largest. An eleven-pounder, he judged. It was the biggest ba.s.s he had seen in a year. It was unbelievable.

There was a plate on the kitchen table heaped with roasted meat. It looked like lamb. He tasted it. It didn't taste like lamb. It didn't taste like anything he had ever tasted before, but it tasted wonderful. He thought of the crabs, and their value dwindled to hors d'ouevres.

It was then he heard the first sobs, from upstairs, he thought, and then a different voice weeping hysterically somewhere else in the house. In fear, he ran through the dining room.

Three women were in the living room. They were all crying, Lib silently, Florence and Helen loudly. Lib saw him and ran into his arms and wiped her tears on his s.h.i.+rt. ”What's happened?” he demanded.

”I thought you'd never come home,” Lib said. ”I was afraid and there's so much trouble.”

”What? Who's hurt?”

”n.o.body but Peyton. She upstairs, crying. Helen spanked her and sent her to bed.”

”Why?”

”She went fis.h.i.+ng.”

”Did Peyton catch those big ba.s.s?”

”Yes.”

”And Helen spanked her for it?”

”Not that. Helen spanked her because she took out your boat and drifted downstream. We didn't know what had happened to her until she rowed home an hour ago. She said she couldn't make it sail right.”

Randy looked at Helen. ”And what's wrong with you?” ”I'm upset. Anybody'd be upset if they had to spank their child.”

Florence wailed and her head fell on her arms. ”What's wrong with her?”

”Somebody or something came in and ate her goldfish.” Florence raised her head. ”I think it must have been Sir Percy. I'm sure of it. I did love that cat and now look how he behaves.” She wept again.

Randy said, ”Isn't anybody going to ask me whether I got salt?”

”Did you get salt?” Lib asked.

”Yes. Fifty pounds of it. And if you women want it, you'll take the wheelbarrow down to the dock and lug it up.”

He went into the kitchen to clean the beautiful ba.s.s and put the crabs in the big pot. It was all ridiculous and stupid. The more he learned about women the more there was to learn except that he had learned this: they needed a man around.

Then he found a tattered goldfish in the gullet of the eleven pounder. He examined it carefully, smiled, and dropped it into the sink. He would not mention it. There was enough trouble and confusion among all these women already.

So ended the hunger of August. In the fourth week the heat broke and the fish began to bite again.

In September school began. It was impractical to re-open the Fort Repose schoolhouse-it was unheated and there was no water. Randy decided that the responsibility for teaching must rest temporarily with the parents. The regular teachers were scattered or gone and there was no way of paying them. The textbooks were still in the schoolhouse, for anyone who needed them.

Judge Braggs library became the schoolroom in the Bragg household, with Lib and Helen dividing the teaching. When Caleb Henry arrived to attend cla.s.ses with Peyton and Ben Franklin, Randy was a little surprised. He saw that Peyton and Ben expected it, and then he recalled that in Omaha-and indeed in two thirds of America's cities-white and Negro children had sat side by side for many years without fuss or trouble.

In October the new crop of early oranges began to ripen. The juice tasted tart and refres.h.i.+ng after months without it.

In October, armadillos began to grow scarce in the Fort Repose area, but the Henrys' flock of chickens had increased and the sow again farrowed. Also, ducks arrived in enormous numbers from the North-more than Randy ever before had seen. Wild turkeys, which before The Day had been hunted almost to extermination in Timucuan County, suddenly were common. Randy fas.h.i.+oned himself a turkey call, and shot one or two every week. Quail roamed the groves, fields and yards in great coveys. He did not use his sh.e.l.ls on such trifling game. But Two-Tone knew how to fas.h.i.+on snares, and taught the boys, so there was usually quail for breakfast along with eggs.

One evening near the end of the month Dan Gunn returned from his clinic, smiling and whistling. ”Randy,” he said. ”I have just delivered my first post-Day baby! A boy, about eight pounds, bright and healthy!”

”So what's so wonderful about delivering a baby?” Randy said. ”Was the mother under hypnosis?”

”Yes. But that's not what was wonderful.” Dan's smile disappeared. ”You see, this was the first live baby, full term. I had two other pregnancies that ended prematurely. Nature's way of protecting the race, I think, although you can't reach any statistical conclusion on the basis of three pregnancies. Anyway, now we know that there's going to be a human race, don't we?”

”I'd never really thought there might not be.” ”I had,” Dan said quietly.

In November a tall pine, split by lightning during the summer, dropped its brown needles and died and Randy and Bill felled it with a two-man saw and ax. It was arduous work and neither of them knew the technique. It was at times like this that Randy missed and thought of Malachai. Nevertheless they got the job done and trimmed the thick branches. The wood was valuable, for another winter was coming.

Randy went to bed early that night, exhausted. He woke suddenly with a queer sound in his ears, like music, almost. He looked at his watch. It was a bit after midnight. Lib slept quietly beside him. He was frightened. He nudged her. She lifted her head and her eyes opened. ”Sweetheart,” he said, ”do you hear anything?”

”Go to sleep,” she said, and her head fell back on the pillow. It bounced up again. ”Yes,” she said, ”I do hear something. It sounds like music. Of course it can't be music but that's what it sounds like.”

”I'm relieved,” Randy said. ”I thought it was in my head.” He listened intently. ”I could swear that it sounds like 'In the Mood.' If I didn't know better I could swear it was that great Glenn Miller recording.”

She kicked him. ”Get up! Get up!”

He flung himself out of bed and opened the door to the upstairs living room, lit by a lamp on the bar, turned low. It was necessary to keep fire in the house for they no longer had matches, flints, or lighter fluid. Randy thought, it must be the transistor radio, started up again, but at the same time he knew this was impossible because he long ago had thrown away the dead batteries. Nevertheless he picked up the radio and listened. It was silent yet the music persisted.

”It's coming from the hall,” Lib said.

They opened the door into the hallway. The rhythm was louder but the hall was empty. Randy saw a crack of light under Peyton's door. ”Peyton's room!” he said.

He put his hand on the door handle but decided it would be gentlemanly to knock first. After all, Peyton was twelve now. He knocked.

The music stopped abruptly. Peyton said, in a small, frightened voice, ”Come in.”

Peyton's room was illuminated by a lamp Randy had never seen before. Peyton didn't have a lamp of her own. On Peyton's desk was an old-fas.h.i.+oned, hand crank phonograph with flaring horn. Stacked beside it were alb.u.ms of records.

Randy said, softly, ”Put it on again, Peyton.”

Peyton stopped plucking at the front of her pajamas, hand me-downs from Ben Franklin, just as Ben's pajamas were hand-me downs from Randy, so fast did children grow. She started the record, from the beginning. Hearing it, Randy realized how much he had missed music, how music seasoned his civilization. In the Henry house Missouri often sang, but in the Bragg house hardly anyone could carry a tune, or even hum.

Over the rhythm, Lib whispered, ”Where did you get it, Peyton? Where did it come from?”

”The attic. I went up the little ladder in the back hall. Mother will be furious. She told me never to go up there because the rungs were cracked and I might fall.”

”Your mother was up in the attic a few months ago. She didn't see anything.”

”I know. I was crawling around behind the big trunk and there was a door, a board door that looked like part of the wall. I opened it and there was another room, smaller.”