Up Jumps the Devil

9

« ^ » Vegetation is amazingly quick in this province; the soil, in general, will produce most things; the climate has something so kindly, that the soil, when left to itself, throws out an immense quantity of flowers and flowering shrubs.“Scotus Americanus,” 1773

I’d planned to sleep in next morning, but the telephone beside my bed woke me at first light and it was Haywood’s wife Isabel in my ear explaining why they hadn’t driven over to Kinston yesterday to catch that chartered plane to Atlantic City as they’d planned.

“You know we always go on a Friday so we don’t have to miss church, but the cows got out yesterday and by the time we got them back in, it was too late, so Haywood and Anthony, they’re going to walk all the fences today instead.”

I listened groggily, wondering what cows and missing their gambling weekend had to do with me. The whole idea of Haywood—Haywood, for Pete’s sake!—sitting in a casino in Atlantic City blows my mind whenever I try to picture it. For starters, he’s just over six feet and weighs just under three hundred. He’s most comfortable in his size 14EEE brogans, denim overalls, and an old felt porkpie hat, out on the tractors with Anthony, his black tenant. And he’s usually pretty frugal with a dime.

But somehow he and Isabel got talked into trying a “free” weekend in Atlantic City a few years back and they loved it so much that every two or three months, they’ll join a bunch of similar-minded folks from eastern Carolina and head for the flashing neon lights. The flight, overnight accommodations, meals and floor show are all complimentary—glamorous bait for the gullible. Sometimes the promoters sweeten the pot even further with a couple of rolls of quarters.

But unless their free charter flights are bringing in bigger gamblers than Haywood, I can’t see that they’re getting much return on their investment.

He gets a big kick out of playing the slot machines, pushing his quarters in, pulling the handle, and watching all the lights and symbols flicker and dance. He paces himself though and he knows to the quarter exactly how much he and Isabel can lose, usually two or three hundred dollars. Once their modest stash is gone, he quits. He figures it’s worth a few hundred to get off the farm for twenty-four hours, walk on the boardwalk, enjoy the food and the entertainment. “Don’t cost no more’n a weekend down at some fish camp in Salter Path,” he says, “and it shore is a purty sound when all them quarters come spilling down.”

Isabel doesn’t care much for gambling. She plays the slots till her three or four rolls of quarters are gone, then she walks around the casino and enjoys the glitter. She people watches or holds a friend’s place at a hot machine while they go to the bathroom or grab a bite to eat; and when her feet start hurting, she goes upstairs to their room, orders room service, then either watches television or naps till Haywood comes up to take her down to dinner—“Prime ribs with au jus,” Haywood tells me, patting his ample waistline with remembered pleasure—and the floor show.

Some of my churchier brothers and sisters-in-law think this is all vaguely sinful, but Haywood just shrugs. “Sin is in the eye of the belittler,” he says. “We gamble on the weather, we gamble on tobacco prices and the price of beef. Don’t you reckon it’s all mute to God?”

So I yawned and listened to Isabel’s tale of those dratted cows and eventually she worked her way around to why she was calling.

“They’re having a special two-night promotion because Thanksgiving’s such a slow day. They’re even going to give everybody fifty dollars playing money, so I was talking to Nadine and Minnie and they say it doesn’t matter to them whether we get together Thanksgiving Day itself or next Saturday since Adam’s planning to leave Wednesday and won’t be here anyway. And Mr. Kezzie never cares if it’s Thanksgiving or not, so if it’s all right with you, it’s all right with everybody else ’cause Amy and Will were supposed to go to her mother’s on Thursday and this way, they can—”

“It’s fine, Isabel,” I assured her. “Whatever y’all want to do. Just tell me what to bring and where to bring it.”

“Well, why don’t you bring the paper plates and napkins? Nadine says she has plenty of plastic cups if we don’t mind blue. Not very Thanksgiving-y, but they’ll drink the same. And Minnie and me, we thought we’d have it at the homeplace. We can set up sawhorse tables in the potato house and bring in some heaters if it turns off cold. It’s good for the grandchildren to get together there, don’t you think? Before they all get grown and scattered and Mr. Kezzie gets too old or something?”

A pang went through me at that “or something” that none of us ever want to name.

“Stevie’ll still be off from school that weekend and Valerie and her family can come, too,” said Isabel. “I don’t know about Robert’s children, but Doris said she’d ask them.”

“Daddy doesn’t like to give Maidie a lot of extra work on the weekend,” I warned.

“She won’t have to do a thing. We’ll be bringing all the food and the boys’ll set up the tables and bring down chairs. No dishes to wash.”

I told her it sounded good to me, that I’d try to find some plates and napkins to match Nadine’s blue cups, and that if I didn’t see her before then, for them to have a happy Thanksgiving in Atlantic City. Then I turned over and tried to get back to sleep, but it was no use. I was wide awake now and even with the windows open, the room was too warm for comfort.

I slipped on a light robe and stepped out on the second-story brick veranda that runs the length of the house. The rain had stopped around midnight but nothing had dried off. The bricks were still slick with water and Hambone’s paws almost skidded out from under him as he came bounding up the steps to greet me with his coat damp from dew and fog. The morning air was so heavy and humid, I felt I could almost squeeze it like a sponge.

Downstairs, I poured myself a glass of juice and watched live shots of falling snow on Aunt Zell’s kitchen television. Colorado had already had a blizzard or two this year and now a strip of the country from the Blue Ridge right up through northern New York was getting snow today. According to the weatherman, though, Colleton County, along with the rest of eastern North Carolina, was going to remain under the influence of this humid offshore southern breeze.

“Such unhealthy feeling weather,” said Aunt Zell, as she does every November when the shorter days make us think of winter but the warm humidity of Indian summer hangs on and on.

The table held half a dozen small crystal bowls of pansies that she’d just picked from a border that lines the brick patio out back. She handed me one for my sitting room and clustered three more on the window ledge over the sink where they would catch the sun if it ever broke through the morning fog. The rest would be placed around the house for the weekend.

I sat down at the table and Hambone jumped up in my lap. Though not yet fully grown, the young beagle was almost too big to hold anymore. He laid his head on the edge of the table and stared soulfully at Aunt Zell.

“A friend told me that the French call November le mois du mort,” I said, scratching the dog’s soft ears.

“Maybe things die back in France,” she said wistfully. “Here, they all seem to be catching their second breath. I saw a gardenia bud on that bush in the back corner. My spirea’s starting to bloom again and the hydrangea leaves are just as green as they were in August. Camellias are going to be blooming before the pecans finish dropping. And that reminds me.”

She crushed the stem tips of yellow, pink, scarlet, and white roses and arranged the mixed bouquet in a silver vase. “If you’re going out to the farm today, Kezzie said he’d send me a quart of pecans he’s picked out if I wanted to start on my fruitcakes.”

I’m probably one of only fifty people in the whole country who really like fruitcakes, especially Aunt Zell’s. Daddy’s one of the other forty-nine. Much as I wanted her to get started, too, I had plans for the weekend and they did not include a trip out to the farm. We were going to head over to Durham and do town things for a change.

“Sorry” I said, “but Kidd and I are—”

At that precise instant, the phone rang. Aunt Zell answered, smiled at me, and said, “Yes, she’s right here. We were just fixing to start talking about you.”

I made a face and pushed Hambone off my lap. Kidd knows I like to sleep in on Saturday morning and he would have dialed my private number upstairs before trying Aunt Zell’s. The only reason he’d be tracking me down this early was to say he was going to be late, right?

Wrong.

“I’m really sorry, Deborah, but you remember what it’s like to be fourteen, don’t you?”

If he hadn’t sounded so torn between duty and desire, I might’ve told him that I certainly did remember. That, yes, fourteen’s about the time when a girl figures out how to blend guilt and charm to get what she wants. And that what Amber Chapin wants is no other female in Kidd’s life.

Instead, speaking as graciously as I could between clenched teeth, I assured him that I could survive the weekend without him if his daughter needed his companionship more. “It’s okay. Honest.”

As I hung up, Aunt Zell and Hambone both gave me an inquiring look.

“So, Hambone,” I said. “How would you like to go for a ride in the country?”

His stubby little tail wagged furiously.

Nice that one of us was happy.