Only Love Can Break Your Heart: A Novel by Tarkington Ed

Author:Tarkington, Ed [Tarkington, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2016-01-05T05:00:00+00:00

13

MY MOTHER TOOK MY expulsion from Macon rather well, all things considered. She was finding herself suited to the role of martyr. The Bible study women again rallied around her, as they had since the Old Man’s stroke. My return to the public school system was the subject of many prayers.

Christmas came and went. My mother made the best of it, doing her usual bit with the decorations: garlands of pine needles wrapping the banisters, tied off with red velvet bows; white Christmas lights in the boxwoods and the dogwood trees lining the driveway; a tasteful tree and an heirloom crèche set on the mantel.

With the Old Man no longer able to work, my mother had to find some kind of employment. She ended up taking a job behind a desk at the furniture company that belonged to Miss Anita Holt’s family. Something was better than nothing. The accountant, Mosby Watts, put my mother in touch with a private car dealer, and within a week the Mercedes was gone, the sum of its sale already spent on bills. I was surprised at how sorry I was to see it go.

The Old Man had a regular aide during the daytime—a young black man named William. William wore hospital whites and a pair of Air Jordans. They spent a lot of time watching sports on TV. When dementia made the Old Man forget himself and start referring to him as “boy” or “the nigger,” William just ignored him, as if they were an old married couple who had lived with each other’s careless words for too long to be bothered by them.

William started inviting me out onto the back porch to keep him company during his smoke breaks. He was full of questions about what it was like to grow up rich.

“I’m sorry he says those things to you,” I said.

We were out on the side porch. William smoked one of his Kools, huddling against the cold in his suede jacket.

“Dag, man,” he said. “Cold out here. Where your rock at?”

“My rock?”

“Your ball, homes.”

He pointed at the basketball hoop on the gable of the garage.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Just thought we might shoot a little to stay warm.”

“I’m not sure we still have one.”

We stamped around a bit, hands stuffed in pockets, William’s cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“He’s not a racist, you know,” I said. “He’s just old.”

William lifted his cigarette and pointed the smoking end of it out toward Twin Oaks.

“Who lives up there?” he asked.

“The Culvers,” I said.

“Ah. ‘That son of a bitch Brad Culver,’ ” William said, imitating the Old Man’s angry-codger voice.

“That’s the one,” I said.

I told William about Twin Oaks and Frank Cherry and Paul’s run-in with Culver. William absorbed it all thoughtfully, sucking his cheeks in when he puffed on his Kool.

“It’s a nice house,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

It was an abnormally cold winter. The house was always drafty, with its high ceilings and stone and wood floors. To save money, my mother kept the thermostat below sixty.

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