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When the money ran low, he took a job teaching choir at a Baptist church.
After a year and a half of that, over di
Baker said, “Not me.”
Da
“That’s why God invented tailors,” said her husband. “Or do it yourself, you used to know how to sew.”
“I still do,” she said, defensively.
“There you go. We’re leaving on Monday.”
Today was Thursday.
Dixie said, “Leaving for where?”
“ Atlanta. I got us a gig opening for the Culpeppers at a new bluegrass club. Nothing fancy, all they want is S.O.S.”
Family talk for the Same Old Shit.
Meaning the standards. Da
“Just like that,” said Dixie. “You made all the plans.”
“Don’t I always? You might want to get some new strings for your plink-box. I overheard you yesterday. The G and D are dead.”
“What about Baker?”
“He can take care of himself, right, son?”
“He’s not even fourteen.”
“How old were you when you had him?”
Talking about him as if he wasn’t there.
Baker wiped his mouth, carried his plate to the sink, and began washing it.
“So?” said Da
Dixie sighed. “I’ll try to sew it myself.”
From then on, they were gone more than they were home. Doing a month on the road, returning for a week or ten days, during which Dixie doted on Baker with obvious guilt and Da
The summer of Baker’s fifteenth birthday, Da
By sheer coincidence, Da
“Hard to get phone contact from there,” said Dixie. “This way we know you’ll be safe.”
During the last week of camp, Baker ate something off and came down with horrible food poisoning. Three days later, the bug was gone but he’d lost seven pounds and was listless. The camp doctor had left early on a family emergency and the Reverend Hartshorne, the camp director, didn’t want to risk any legal liability; just last summer some rich girl’s family had sued because she’d gotten a bladder infection that developed into sepsis. Luckily that kid had survived, probably her fault in the first place, she had a reputation for fooling with the boys but tell that to those fancy-pants lawyers…
Hartshorne found Baker in his bunk room and drew him outside. “Call your parents, son, so they can pick you up. Then start packing.”
“Can’t,” said a wan, weak Baker. “They’re on a ship, no phone contact.”
“When were they figuring on picking you up?”
“I’m taking the bus.”
“All the way to Nashville?”
“I’m okay.”
Lord, thought Hartshorne. These new families.
“Well, son, can’t have you being here, all sick. Got a key to your house?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t mind Nashville. I’ll drive you in.”
They started out in Hartshorne’s white Sedan Deville at three PM, made a single stop for lunch, and pulled into Nashville at nine fifteen.
Lights out in the little frame house.
“You okay going in by yourself?”
Baker was eager to get away from Hartshorne’s Bible speeches and the odors the reverend gave off: bubble gum and body odor and for some reason, an overlay of Wheatena cereal.
“Sure.”
“Okay, then. Walk with the Lord, son.”
“Yessir.”
Baker got his duffel and his pillow from the back and fished out his door key. The Cadillac was gone before he reached the door.
He walked into the empty house.
Heard something.
Not empty- a burglar?
Laying his duffel and pillow on the floor, he tiptoed into the kitchen, snuck all the way back to the laundry room where Da
Ancient Colt, Da
One flash of the Colt and the idiots dispersed.
Remembering that now- recalling the power that came from a couple pounds of honed steel- Baker hefted the pistol and advanced toward the noise in the back.
His parents’ bedroom. Some kind of commotion behind the closed door.
No, not completely closed; the thin paneled slab was cracked an inch.
Baker nudged it with his finger, got a couple more inches of view space and aimed the pistol through the opening.
Dim light. One lamp on a nightstand, his mother’s nightstand giving off a pinkish light.
Because of some silky material that had been tossed over the shade.
His mother on the bed, naked, astride his father.
No, not his father, his father was off to the side on a chair and another woman, blond and ski
The man under his mother, heavier in the legs than his father. Hairier, too.
Two couples, panting, heaving, bucking.
His gun arm froze.
He forced himself to lower it.
Backed away.
Took his duffel and left his pillow and walked out of the house. Made his way to a bus stop and rode downtown and got himself a room at a motel on Fourth.
Found the marine recruitment office the next morning, lied about his age, and enlisted. Two days later, he was on a bus to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina.
It took another week for a panicky Dixie Southerby to locate him.
The marines told him to come back in two years and sent him home.
Dixie said, “What’d you do that for?”
Baker said, “I got restless. Can I go to military school?”
“You don’t want to live at home?”
“I’m big enough to go away.”
Da
Military academies turned out to be too expensive but Fall River Bible School and Seminary in Arlington, Virginia was flexible about tuition for “students with spiritual leanings.”
Baker settled in, met some nice people, and was starting to think he might even fit in somewhere. A month into the first semester, Mrs. Calloway, the head counselor, called him into her office, with tears in her eyes.
When he got here, she hugged him. Not customary for Mrs. Calloway. Not much touching went on at Fall River, period.
“Oh, you poor boy, you poor lamb.”
Baker said, “What?”
It took a long time for her to tell him and when she did, she looked scared, as if she’d be punished for doing it.
The van had been hit head-on, by a drunk on I-40.
Da
All those years on the road without a mishap. Fifteen minutes out of town, the van was turned into scrap.
Both of them dead on impact, their stage clothes strewn all over the interstate.
Da
Dixie ’s mandolin, its hard-shell case covered by a newer Mark Leaf space-age plastic supplementary case and swathed in three packing blankets, the way she always wrapped it, came out unharmed.