“And you think that’s wrong?” Ben said.
She shook her head. “I don’t want it to be.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them to look again at Ben. “But that can’t be, Ben. Not when you’re about to be married, and Sally’s right for you. She is. I’m glad you have her. She’ll make you happy.”
Ben leaned forward in his seat, bent at the waist as if in pain. He was holding his hat and he turned it nervously in his hands. He saw Little Ben staring at him curiously, the rag rabbit tucked in his arms, and he wondered if Little Ben would remember his mother’s words.
“Lottie,” he said, “I’m just a clerk in a store. That’s what I’ll be all my life. I used to think I’d be somebody else, somebody who was famous like Foster or Milo, but I won’t be. And that’s all right with me now. You—you’re different. There’s something about you that’s—I don’t know. Eternal, I think. It’s more than being famous. Everywhere you go, you leave part of yourself, like—I don’t know. Like something a person sees that he can’t forget, because he never thought he’d see anything like it. You’re like somebody I read about in a book one time. It was about the Greeks, thousands of years ago, when they had all kinds of gods and goddesses. My father had some of those books. He liked the stories and he used to read them to me, but made me promise I wouldn’t talk about them in church.” He paused and smiled at the memory of his father’s admonition, then he added, “You’re like one of those—those goddesses.”
Lottie reached for him with her hand, touched his face, then pulled her hand away. “I don’t know about them, Ben. I just know about me. And I know some about you.” She paused. “You love me too, don’t you? I don’t mean like needing to have me, but like caring what happens to me.”
For a moment, Ben did not move. Then he bobbed his head. “Yes,” he whispered.
“That’s all I want to know, Ben. That’s all. Just knowing it, that’s enough.”
THE AUGUSTA TRAIN station was crowded with travelers and cargo workers, and a sense of panic seemed to hang suspended in the hot late-morning air. Ben remembered the feeling from years earlier, being awed by it, wondering how anyone could ever work in such a frenzied place. Now the frenzy—a commotion, his mother would call it—had about it the same mood as a baseball game. Tense. Energetic. No different from players standing in the shadow of a covered shelter, their bodies tilted toward the playing field like flowers tilted toward the sun, waiting for a thrill to explode in front of them.
It took a half hour to find a motorcar taxi service and to load the gift packages that Margaret Phelps had provided for Lottie and Little Ben. Among the packages was the bundle that Lottie had taken from Kentucky, still wrapped with the cord she had found in the barn, and Ben remembered that it was the one item that Lottie had carried personally to the train in Jericho. He believed it held her collection of memories.
The address that Lottie gave the driver was on River Road, and the driver frowned irritably. He said, “You got the money for going out there?”
“I have the money,” Ben told him.
“Well, you got more than anybody that lives out there’s got,” the driver said sarcastically. He looked at Lottie. “There’s lots better places to stay.”
“That’s where we want to go,” Ben said firmly.
THE DRIVE THROUGH Augusta stirred memories for Ben. It had been, for him, a magical place, a place of dreams, and even the hurt of seeing those dreams end with the finality of a death could not dim the exuberance of the one grand moment of his life. In the catch of a baseball—impossible even to those who witnessed it—Ben had been as much a god as those gods from the stories of the Greeks. Hercules. He had been Hercules.
The route taken by the driver did not pass Hornet Field, yet Ben knew he would not leave Augusta without going there. For a few minutes only. A walk around the field. Or maybe there would be a game, and he would watch young boys with dreams, sucking dust and hope into their lungs with each play. He wondered if Arnold Toeman was still the manager. Likely so. Men such as Arnold Toeman liked the killing of dreams.
The driver turned onto a narrow, washboard-rut side road that mimicked the flow of the Savannah River, and a row of shanty homes—small, unpainted, with patched roofs and sidings, the yards eroded, cluttered in trash and covered with wilting weeds—began to appear on the down side of the road, overlooking the river. Ben watched Lottie. She pushed deeper into her seat, the look on her face becoming pale, a look of resignation.
“You show me which one,” the driver said curtly. “They all look alike to me. Looks like Niggertown.”
“Around the next curve,” Lottie said in a weak voice. “Number seventy-two. First one.”
The home of Lottie’s childhood was no different from any of the houses on the road. They had been built for workers of nearby textile mills on land useless for anything but the shanty homes that were there. A sense of dread welled up in Ben. He was glad his mother was not with them.
Lottie and Little Ben got out of the car and stood near the walkway leading to the house. She seemed to be waiting for someone to open the door and speak to her.
“Could you wait for me?” Ben asked the driver.
“How long?” the driver said.
“A few minutes,” Ben told him. “I just need to make sure her people still live here, and then we can unload everything.”
The driver shrugged. “You wouldn’t catch me staying out here, neither,” he mumbled. He cast a glance toward Lottie. “That your woman?”
“She’s a friend,” Ben said. “Her husband died not long ago. I’m just making sure she gets home.”
“Damn, she’s a looker,” the driver said. He grinned. “Maybe I better remember where this place is.” He wiped the perspiration from his face. “All right. Take your time. Gone cost you a little more, but I’ll wait.”
Ben crossed to Lottie and touched her arm. He said, “Are you ready?”
“Stay here with Little Ben,” she said.
“Why?” asked Ben.
“I need to go back by myself,” she said.
“All right,” Ben replied. He took Little Ben’s hand and watched Lottie move down the walkway to the house. At the door, she hesitated, took a step back, and waited. After a moment, the door opened and a frail woman with graying hair stood in the doorway. Ben could see her mouth move, but he could not hear the words. He saw the woman push her face forward to hear something Lottie was saying, and then the woman craned to look toward him. He saw her frown and look again at Lottie. She said something, then lifted a thin arm to push her hair from her forehead. She seemed to nod, then stepped back into the house. Lottie turned and crossed back to him.
“Was that your mother?” Ben asked.
“Yes,” Lottie answered.
“Is your father home?”
“He’s dead. Somebody killed him.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said.
“It’s all right,” Lottie told him. “It don’t surprise me.”
“Your sister? Lila. Is she here?”
Lottie nodded.
Ben knelt to Little Ben. He tucked the shirt Little Ben was wearing into his trousers. Then he said, “Go back with me, Lottie. Please.”
“I can’t,” Lottie said simply.
“You can’t stay here.”
“It’s my home, Ben.”
“No, it’s not. It’s the place you used to live,” Ben said.
“I got to try.”
“Is this what you want for Little Ben?” Ben asked.
“Don’t say that to me, Ben,” Lottie whispered. “You know better.”
Ben stood. He glanced toward the house. “All right,” he said in resignation. “Let’s get your things in the house.”
“Just put them out here,” Lottie told him.
“I’ll help you get them in,” Ben said.
“No, Ben. This is as far as you go,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You did what you promised Foster you’d do,??
? Lottie said. “You brought me home.”
“I want to make sure you’re all right before I leave,” Ben protested.
“I’m all right, Ben,” she said evenly.
Ben looked away beyond the house. He could see the steel gray of the river through the trees, its water showing sunspots in its roll. On the river, he saw a small boat with two men in it. Fishing, he thought.
He had brought Lottie home, as far as she would allow. She did not want him to see behind the door of the house, and he would not argue. He could not intrude on her pride.
“I’ll get your things,” he said. He turned and crossed to the car and began to unload the packages, helped by the driver.
“Just give me another minute,” he said to the driver. “In private, if you would.”
The driver cocked his head and grinned and walked back to his car.
“Will you remember something?” Ben said to Lottie. “Will you remember that you can come back anytime you want to. You got a home with us.”
Lottie looked at Little Ben. “Yes,” she said.
Ben knelt again to Little Ben. “Come here,” he said. “Give Big Ben a hug.”
Little Ben moved cautiously to him, put his arms around Ben’s neck.
“Someday we’ll go fishing again,” Ben said softly. “I’d like that.”
“Fishing,” Little Ben said.
“You watch after your mama,” Ben added. He kissed Little Ben on the forehead, released him, and stood, facing Lottie. “There’s a thousand things I’ll think about saying to you after I’m gone, but the only thing I can think of right now is that I’ll miss you.”
Lottie stepped to him, took his face in her hands, pulled him to her, kissed him gently. “I love you, Ben Phelps.”
“I love you, too, Lottie Lanier,” Ben said, his voice quaking.
NO ONE WAS at Hornet Field. Ben sat on the empty bench of the home team shelter and looked out over the field. It had been six years since he played there, played his last game, yet it seemed as though he had closed his eyes, slept the night, and was late for a workout. Nothing, he thought, was as silent as an empty ballpark. Empty, there was no magic in it. It was a place, nothing more.
He realized he was tired, and that the illness he had suffered was still tender in his chest.
He wanted to be home, to be with his mother and with Sally, but he could not put Lottie and Little Ben from his mind. He had left them in a house of shame on a road of shame, left them to take up an inheritance of poverty that would paralyze them with its never-ending numbness.
A flock of gray birds, with wings in glide, floated out of the sky over the shelter and landed in the outfield grass behind second base and began to peck at the ground.
Ben stood and swiped at the dust on his pants legs. He said aloud, “I did all I could do, Foster. I did all I could.”
He ducked out of the shelter and walked toward the gate. Behind him, he heard the birds fluttering up from the ground, their wing beats curling through the air. Ben stopped. The wing beats had voices.
“You got it, Ben! You got it!”
“Goda’mighty, Ben! I never see nothing like that!”
“You done it, Ben! You done it!”
LILA SAT IN her rocker on the back porch. Lottie sat close in a chair she had pulled from the front room. The porch, with its lipped roof, was dark. On the river, the moon, two days from being full, rode the water like a pale yellow ribbon. Off in the distance, the lights of Augusta were as dim as fireflies. The air and the heat were almost liquid.
It was late. Little Ben had been coaxed to sleep. Lottie did not know where her mother was. She had left the house after supper and had not returned.
For a long time, the sisters did not speak. They sat and watched the flow of the river and the tricky change of moonlight on the glassy surface of the water. And then Lila said, “You been gone a long time.”
“I guess,” Lottie replied.
“I used to think you was dead,” Lila told her.
“Times, I wished I was.”
“When I was gone, that’s about all I wished,” Lila sighed.
“I thought about you a lot in Kentucky,” Lottie said. “I wrote you a letter.”
“I remember. It was the only letter I ever got. I read it lots of times. I could say it by heart, I read it so many times.”
“Nobody wrote me back.”
“I started to one time,” Lila said. “Just wadn’t nothing to say.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Cicadas sang from the trees. Bullfrogs bellowed. The rocker from Lila’s chair squeaked rhythmically.
“That boy that brought you home,” Lila said. “He was your man?”
“No,” Lottie answered. “He was a friend.”
“Somebody killed Daddy,” Lila said absently.
“I know,” Lottie whispered.
“They never said who done it,” Lila said. “Maybe it was Mama. He got worse with all his drinking. Maybe Mama hit him with a hammer and drug him off to the river and rolled him in it. Somebody done it. They found him way downstream.”
Lottie moved from her chair and walked to the edge of the porch and gazed down at the river. A firefly flew near her face, its blinking light reflecting in her eyes.
“Somebody done it,” Lila said again.
“I killed a man, too,” Lottie said simply.
“What man?” asked Lila.
“He was somebody my husband worked a carnival with,” Lottie answered softly. “He hurt my friend, Ben, and I saw him do it—him and a midget.”
“Midget? What midget?”
“He was with the carnival,” Lottie said.
“Oh,” Lila said, as though understanding the full life of the midget.
“After he hurt Ben, he was trying to have his way with me, saying he’d go back and kill Ben if I didn’t,” Lottie said. “He was drunk, bad drunk, and he had a baseball bat to kill Ben with. The midget got scared and run off.” She paused again. She was breathing hard. “I hit him on the leg and he fell down and then I hit him in the head and killed him.”
“Like somebody killed Daddy,” Lila said. “Maybe Mama.”
“I guess,” Lottie said. “He had Ben’s wallet. I took the money out of it, but I never spent a penny of it. It was Ben’s money.”
“What’d you do with it?” Lila asked eagerly.
“He’ll find it,” Lottie said.
“We could use some money,” Lila replied. “The mill don’t pay much.”
“I got some,” Lottie told her.
“Can you buy me something?” her sister asked in a begging voice. “I don’t care what.”
“All right,” Lottie said.
Lila stopped rocking. “I like that dress you got on.”
“I’ve got one for you,” Lottie said.
“Maybe if I get me a new dress, I’ll go off again,” Lila said languidly. “Maybe go to Savannah. I liked Savannah. That’s where I was when I was gone before. I got married there, but he left me one day. Maybe he’s come back and he’s been looking for me.”
“Maybe so,” Lottie whispered.
Lila stopped rocking. “Sometimes I miss having a man on me,” she confessed with a sigh. “The right man makes me feel like I was special. I like it when they pulling on my nipples and grabbing at me with they hands and licking me all over like I was a piece of candy. I like it when they sound like they can’t breathe no more, they working so hard. I like it when they say I’m pretty.”
Lottie thought of Arthur Ledford. He had called her beautiful when he made love to her, his breathing hard and deep, yet his touches were gentle, like the touches of someone who wanted to warm his hands from the silk of her skin. Arthur Ledford had put his life in jeopardy for her. He had given her money, yes, but it was not a whore’s pay; it was because he had nothing else he could offer.
“You gone stay here?” Lila asked.
Lottie did not answer.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE NEWSPAPER-WR
APPED bundle, tied with a string, was in an armoire where Ben kept his clothes, though he did not find it until he dressed for work the morning following his late-night return to Jericho from Augusta. He opened it on his bed. Folded inside was the baseball uniform that Foster had worn in his tryout with the Augusta Hornets, and tucked inside the uniform was an envelope. Ben opened the envelope and found twenty-four dollars. For a moment, it puzzled him. Then he remembered: twenty-four dollars was the amount of money stolen from his wallet by Baby Cotwell and the midget Joseph Callahan. He fanned the bills, found one with a faded X marked in the corner—Coleman’s mark from the day of the carnival.
He searched the uniform for a letter from Lottie, but did not find one.
He sat heavily on the bed. There was no reason for a letter, he thought. The money said all he needed to know. Foster had denied killing Baby, but it must have been a lie, and the money taken had never been spent because it was blood money. Lottie knew the truth, of course. Lottie had left the money for him.
He wondered if Lottie had been involved in the killing, if the killing had been a terrible truth that bound them together.
No, he thought. Not Lottie. Not Lottie.
He placed the uniform back inside the newspaper, wrapped and retied it, and then he took it to the attic and placed it in the trunk with his glove. He hesitated before closing the trunk. He could feel the envelope with the money in his pocket, and, after a moment, he removed it and placed it on top of the uniform. Blood money, he thought. If he used it, it would bring tragedy to all who touched it.
It was over. All of it. Foster. Lottie. Baby Cotwell. The midget. He had been inexplicably tied to all of them, and now it was over.
He closed the trunk, locked it, left the attic, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother sat sad-faced, gazing out of the window at the backyard grass as though she expected Little Ben to suddenly roll up from a somersault and wave to her.
“Mama,” Ben said, “I need a smile this morning.”
His mother turned to face him. “Are you all right?”
“I suppose so,” Ben answered. He placed the ring he had purchased for Sally from an Augusta jeweler named Adolph Bergman in front of his mother. “I’m getting married, remember?”