“Thank the feller who runs this flophouse. The beers’re on him, and whatall else we hanker after. It’s the big crowds we been pullin’ in since we teamed up. Folks is comin’ from all over the acreage. Kitchen’s hummin’ and the bar cain’t stock in enough. Him and me we had a talk, and he’s uppin’ our wages, too. You ain’t singin’ fer free no more. And Will Henry says he knows a feller runs a record company who might wanta come fer a listen.”
“Oh…”
“Whatsamatter, little darlin? Thought that’d set y’dancin’. Sumthin gotcha feelin’ blue?”
“I’m happier than I ever been in my life, Duke. I’m so happy it sometimes makes me sad. But, well, I don’t know, it just feels so unreal. You know. Life out at the camp, kneel down to Jesus, hooray for poverty, the end of the world and all that, and then us here in the Moon drinking beer and talking honkytonk careers. I’m sorta lost and I don’t know if Marcella knows what to make of it neither.”
“She been talkin’ to ye?”
“Well, sure, in her way, most all the time. She’s worried about all the problems out there, the way things are breaking up and turning quarrelsome, and about whether the little Collins girl is gonna live or die and just what’s apt to happen tomorrow out on the mine hill, after all that young Darren has done to fever up anticipations and what with the troubles the Baxter people been causing, who knows what they may do next, but maybe that’s just me worrying and she’s worrying on account of I’m worrying.”
“That’s a most entertainin’ notion, Patti Jo. A worried mind inside a worried mind. Ifn I knowed how t’write it in a song, I surely would.”
“What I can’t figure out is exactly why I’m here. Marcella must of drawed me back because she wants something, something to help her find peace, but I don’t know what it is.”
“She was your best pal, Patti Jo. Her family’s all gone. You’re what-all she’s got now.”
“You mean, she just wanted my company? She’s not that selfish. Wasn’t when I knew her anyhow. And anyway we were kinda keeping company already before I come back. Has to be more than that.”
“Well, she mighta only wanted you to have a sweeter life than you been livin’.”
“I thought of that. And I think it’s partly true. It don’t seem a complete accident you and me met up. But that’s got done, and she still don’t want to let me go. For one thing, I think I have to stay now till the Collins girl gets better, and the way she is, that may never happen. Bernice says she’s real bad off, and Mabel is almost afraid to look at her cards. And it’s like if I go, she’ll surely die. I had a dream last night about her and Marcella. They were in a playground, playing like Marcella and me used to do. Jacks and stuff. And then Elaine was in a swing and Marcella was pushing her. She kept going higher and higher and I could see if she went any higher she’d tip over and fall out. I was scared and I ran over and asked Marcella to please stop. She opened her mouth but nothing came out, she could only shake her head. She was as scared as I was, but she kept pushing like she couldn’t stop herself. I knew she wanted me to help, but I couldn’t. It was like my arms weighed a ton. I woke up all in a sweat, tied up in the sheets. I probably cried out and I was afraid I mighta waked you up, but you were sawing them off. Softly, though. It was kinda more like humming.”
“I was probly conjurin’ up a new song. Wisht I coulda wrote it down.”
“You were laying on your stomach. Light from the parking lot was making your butt glow in the dark. It was beautiful. And a solace to me. I leaned over and kissed it for luck.”
“That musta been when I got the rhyme. I don’t recollect what it was rhymin’ with, but the answer was Patti Jo.”
“It helped me get back to sleep again. But now I keep seeing Marcella’s face when she turned to stare at me. Like she’s right in front of me. Her little gold cross on a chain around her neck, glittering in the sun. Her ears sticking out a little. The scared begging look in her eyes. Her mouth open, trying to talk. And Elaine way up above us, about to come falling down.”
“Now, that’s sumthin t’ponder. Not jist a fallen angel, but havin’ one land on ye like a frigerator. Near as bad as gittin’ stars in your eyes. Well, when you’re low or feelin’ fearful, honey, you jist keep smoochin’ my butt, and I guarantee things’ll turn up rosy!”
“It might help if I knew where she was resting. One thing I wanted to do right off when I got here was go put some flowers on her grave. But no one seems to know where it is. I went down to city hall and told them I was a friend of the family, a distant relative, but they said there wasn’t much of that family left and they had no idea where anybody was. They kept eyeing me in a funny way, but finally said I should go ask Monsignor Baglione at the Catholic church. Father Bags has been here forever, a disgusting old priest with an unwashed old man stink about him. He still doesn’t speak much English and my Italian is mostly cusswords, but I was able to tell him directly who I was and why I was looking, figuring he was obliged not to tell anyone. He didn’t know where she was buried neither, only that she’d been excommunicated and so wasn’t in San Luca, and said I should ask down at city hall.”
“They’s some folks out to the church camp reckon she got dreckly transported.”
“Took the body and left the voice behind, you mean? I’ve still got enough R. C. in me to find those rapturing ideas too much like something outa kids’ comicbooks.”
“Y’know, they’s a gent sometimes comes in I could ask. Five-by-five squinty-eyed feller with a fat nose and a buncha chins, you may a seen him. He’s the fire chief now, but he useta be the mayor some years back, so all that mighta probly happened on his watch. He mostly only turns up midweek when they’s not so many people, usually with some wore-out ole bag or another. Got no idea what he does with ’em. On dead nights, when he’s on his lonesome, he sometimes buys me a drink at the bar and gits t’talkin’ in his sad comical way. I’ll tell him a friend’s inquirin’ but I won’t say who. An ole boyfriend or sumthin. But fer now, dear lady, the herd’s a-gittin’ restless. Time t’crank up another round.”
“Okay. At least we don’t have to do ‘White Dove’ anymore. Looks like that bird’s kicked the bucket.”
“No, them two kids’re here. I seen ’em. He’s drivin a sporty cherry-colored ragtop now. But they don’t have time fer warmups no more. It’s jist straight inta the dugout’n play ball!”
“Time for ‘Baby, Let’s Play House,’ you mean.”
“Or jist ‘A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.’ But you got me in a lovin’ mood, Patti Jo. My butt’s not customed to such tensions and it’s still jist a-tinglin’ like a little kid suffrin’ first love. Let’s do Hank’s ‘Baby, We’re Really in Love.’”
“‘I Love You So Much It Hurts.’”
“‘I’m Losin’ My Mind over You.’”
“‘Lovesick Blues.’ I really love to hear you yodel that one.”
“Cuz it’s bubblin’ up from the heart, little darlin’. Or from some-wheres in that genral neighborhood. You call ’em as we go. We’ll close with the house theme’n let that rainbo-ho-ho turn the clouds away!”
Stealthily, they enter the camp just after midnight. Ten of them. On the blind side, near the Field of Transcendence, as he taught her to call it. Now that of his suffering, his mutilation. His Field of Affliction. He is the one who knows the routes in and out of the camp in the dark and is their leader. His father is not here, he is Abner Baxter. There are armed guards — he has warned them about that — but they are armed, too. They carry warning whistles that sound like owl hoots in case something goes wrong. It was how he and the girl called to each other. She who is nameless now. Who makes him sick for what happened to her. Angry. She didn’t even try to stop them. It was like she wanted it to happen. The weather has been wet and drizzly the past couple of days. He can feel the damp working its way into his sneakers and socks, creeping up his pantlegs. But it provides a better cover for them. Sounds are dampened as well and the guards will be under shelter somewhere.