Devreaux's Appointment

By Larry D. Powell

is the fictionalized account of an impressionable, star-crossed lad coming of age in tiny Bristow, Arkansas, graduating from The University of Arkansas, attaining a degree from Candler School of Theology, and aspiring for a ministerial appointment in Arkansas from the Methodist bishop. Bristow is where he learned to figure, process unpleasantries, and was abducted. The University of Arkansas is where he excelled academically, married his campus sweetheart, and survived the initial attempt upon his life by an unknown assassin. Georgia is where he served a student ministerial appointment in rural Greene County, resisted the wiles of a skirt-tugging parishioner, survived a near fatal automobile wreck precipitated by an ambitious small town constable, navigated through numerous personality conflicts of parishioners, and narrowly avoided a cleverly calculated scheme by the anonymous assassin. Arkansas is the setting for Deveauxs initial appointments while awaiting the elusive promotion. Interesting personalities abound: an enigmatic district superintendent, the church member in charge of porno films shown at the fire department, the unpredictable church organist, and the unknown assassin. The salient significance of the books title is discovered in the LAST line of the text.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475925975

Larry D. Powell

Larry D. Powell served as a minister in The United Methodist Church for forty-five years before retiring in 2005. He is a graduate of Hendrix College and graduated with honors from Candler School of Theology. He and his wife, Terri, make their home near Conway, Arkansas. Stones is his seventh book.

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DEVREAUX’S APPOINTMENT

Larry D. Powell

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

DEVREAUX’S APPOINTMENT

Copyright © 2012 by Larry D. Powell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-2596-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2597-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 5/17/2012

Contents

BOOK ONE

BOOK TWO

BOOK ONE

"Every man’s life is a fairy tale

written by God’s fingers."

—Hans Christian Anderson

"There’s a long trail a-winding

into the land of my dreams."

—Stoddard King

Bristow, Arkansas

1950

Pondering is best done in the privacy of one’s own glazed over ruminations. Or at least, so it seemed to Devreaux Caine, whose boyhood included frequent, self-induced periods of reflective solitude. An only child, not the least disposed toward companionship for the sake of itself, he much preferred to dream his dreams secluded in his own special places. He delighted in lazily detecting faces and images in random clouds as chanced to configure in the sky above his little world. Reticent and chronically introspective, he frequently sequestered in some quiet place with pencil and paper and commenced reaching for appropriate words to versify … something. Words seemed to mockingly elude him when it came to squeezing them out the end of a pencil. Then followed the recurring disappointment in realizing that reverie and abstraction are not always transcribable. Eventually, he would understand that such early stirrings were the over-anxious growing pains of his own young soul, beckoning to him from somewhere beyond the hearing of the natural ear.

There had been the usual assortment of beloved creatures which, in the absence of siblings or compatible chums, served not only as pets but bonafide companions. He cherished them all. A succession of dogs, mostly shepherds, had romped and played with him until either both wearied or spirited playfulness accelerated into mild self-defense. Midnight, distinguished by a magnificent coat of black marked only by a white cross on his breast, was the favorite. It was inconceivable to a little boy’s mind that someone unknown to him would have poured scalding water on such a gentle, devoted creature. He remembered how Midnight had crawled beneath the house, bumping himself against floor joists, whining pitifully day and night. He remembered too that anger and sorrow make for an awful misery. In addition to the four-leggeds, there had been a goose, several baby chickens, goldfish, small turtles, a canary, and a spate of parakeets. At one time or another, each had been the featured attraction in one of several front yard, one ring circuses. Unpredictably, cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and paper sacks suddenly appeared along the tree-lined sidewalk serving as signage, hyping a once-in-a-lifetime EXTRAVERGANZER. The ringmaster would appear resplendently costumed, his mother’s apron tied cape-like around his neck, shod in his daddy’s high-top, buckle-up galoshes. Names of exotic creatures were inscribed on tops of shoe boxes, gloriously displayed in ox-blood liquid shoe polish. Glass jars contained fireflies, bumblebees, catalpa worms, and assorted unidentified insects. Domesticated but potentially ferocious creatures, such as Midnight, the Wonder Dog of Africa and Goldie, the World’s Smartest Goose were mercifully secured in wooden orange crates. It remained unclear as to precisely what dazzling feats of derring-do these rare and astounding anomalies of nature were to accomplish, due to the recurring absence of even one spectator. At such times as inclimate weather prevented outside diversions, Devreaux conversed with longtime pretend friends, gave his one-eyed teddy bear haircuts, or taped comic strips together in linear sequence, then pulled them through narrow slits in a cracker box. And so it was that the erstwhile ringmaster provided ‘moving pictures’ to make believe audiences until weather permitted resumption of weightier enterprises outside.

He seriously doubted that providence actually required his tending to such mundane domestic matters as his daddy regularly and annoyingly suggested. Mowing the lawn would necessitate foregoing some personal pursuit of immeasurable urgency. Cleaning the chicken house required precious time to be wasted among mites and gnats when it could be spent far more productively in the fork of a chinaberry tree, awaiting some Arab merchant’s caravan, suddenly to be put upon by the noble, yet feared, Phantom of the Desert. Indeed, the well worn crotch of the chinaberry tree was not simply a robber’s perch, but also a crow’s nest from which flew the Jolly Roger; the cockpit of a B-29 bomber, exclusively engaged in clandestine, solo missions; the ivy covered tower atop an ancient castle; Tarzan’s treetop jungle retreat; and a magic flying carpet capable of exceeding any speed known to man. Surely, if it had been divinely intended, critical to the larger scheme of things, that a child already so busily occupied should be expected to attend custodial affairs, they would not be such unpleasant inconveniences.

Herself an only child, and ostensibly prejudiced regarding her own, Justine Gammill Caine was particular to the letter, assiduous, and openly possessive. Puritanical in matters of conduct and, to her own chagrin, painfully naive about social interaction, her interests included only those matters pertaining to her immediate family. Introverted and predominantly task-oriented, she was prone to impatience and abruptness. At times, importunance escalated quickly into abrasiveness. She abhorred disorder and untidiness. Her capacity for persistence and attention to minute detail elicited both admiration and agitation. Frail of body, she was at times almost humorous to observe, demanding immediate attention be given some ever so paltry concern, allowing no latitude, while appearing to be unmistakably in command of any given situation. Rectitude personified. However, it was as if the mind of industry itself had been tragically consigned to a physical body of chronic infirmity. Mind and body appeared mismatched. Intention and hardiness were out of sync. Consequently, tensions between ideals and reality clashed daily within her obsessively exacting mind. She had but two avocations; attending the monthly meeting of the Home Demonstration Club, and the composition of poetic laudation, either about the unsearchable goodness of Jesus, Son of God or the immeasurable virtues of her own son.

It followed that, both by osmosis and intentional instruction, Devreaux early became the domestic extension of his mother. Household furniture required wiping down, as did baseboards, hard to reach corners, mirrors, and lamp globes. A linoleum rug, noticeably smaller than the floor beneath it, always required sweeping, followed by dust mopping prior to being wet-mopped. At least, according to Justine’s specifications. Other wooden floors were routinely rubbed down with oil. On Monday mornings, water was pumped by hand into gallon buckets, poured into three galvanized tubs of graduated sizes, and made ready for washday. One tub for wash, two for rinsing. At the end of the day, clothes dried on the clothesline were brought inside and sorted into two piles: those to be ironed, and those to be folded or hanged. Articles to be ironed were shuttled across the street to Mrs. Holt who charged 10 cents per item. Such responsibilities and more, including washing and drying dishes, sweeping the porch and walkway, and emptying the chamber beneath his parent’s bed every morning, were dutifully tended.

Reuben Caine would have much preferred the pursuance of life in the country. His hard, muscular body appeared to invite strenuous testing of its own strength. He considered physical labor beneath a warm sun to be a privilege, with the added benefit of physical conditioning. Idleness repulsed him. His large, powerful hands, possessing a character of their own, were seldom unoccupied. Sharp facial features, accented by a moderate monobrow inaccurately suggested a stern, unabiding countenance. His practical, keenly deductive mind would have served him well in whatever vocation he may have undertaken. Since boyhood, he had dreamed of owning his own farm, but it was a dream hard repressed. Justine would have none of it. I’m not going to be a dirt farmer’s wife, and that’s all there is to it, she had averred early in their courtship. Rueben had learned that when she laid down a declaration accompanied by, ‘and that’s all there is to it,’ discussion had ceased. Despite disappointment, he had consented to pursue an alternate vocation. Ambition, he believed, is worthy of itself and it is neither wise nor to any good purpose to destroy, or worse surrender, what may just as easily be redirected. Time is too precious to waste, despair its own reward, and the fit take leave of a task, not when they tire, but when it is completed. Such was the simple philosophy of the man who, on the day of Devreaux’s birth, hired out to the R.E.A. (Rural Electrification Association) as a lineman, or ‘trouble-shooter’, for the county. It had proven a tolerable option. There was the open air, the regular taxing of taunt, restless muscles, the welcome feel of weather upon his face, the sun which he claimed charged him like a battery, and regular wages which field-cropping could not guarantee. There was, however, the nagging inconvenience of being unexpectedly summoned late at night or early morning to hurry away somewhere to search miles of shadowy spans for a maverick power line on the ground or trouble at the top of a utility pole. He neither had time nor inclination to expand his interests. Vocationally, he was a lineman. His singular avocation was home.

Devreaux, you’d better get this yard mowed before your daddy gets home! It’s almost time for him now.

In a minute, Mama.

She anticipated his reply. Everything was always, In a minute.

Alright, you just keep putting it off, but don’t come running to me when your daddy sets in on you.

But, I’m kinda busy right now, Mama.

Oh yes, I can see that plain enough. You’ve been sprawled out there for the past hour gazing off into space.

I’m not gazing.

Justine shook her head from side to side. Her patience was wearing thin. Well, I don’t know what you’d call it if it’s not gazing.

His eyes remained fixed upon some unseen conundrum, yonder, beyond the sky, in another galaxy. I’m figuring.

Well, you’d better be figuring out what you’re gonna say to your daddy when he comes out here directly and sees the yard’s not mowed.

Mama, he answered in a studied tone, confirming her suspicion that he had effortlessly deflected all urgency from the matter at hand. How come birds won’t let you pet ‘em?

My Lord in heaven, Devreaux, what’s gonna become of you? One day you fret about how spiders can spin webs, next you want to know why fish don’t drown, and today its birds. If you spent as much time doing as you do figuring, I wouldn’t have to keep after you every waking minute.

But Mama, I just …

Don’t ‘Mama’ me anymore. You get up and get yourself behind that lawnmower or I’m gonna get behind you with a switch, and that’s all there is to it.

Yes Ma’am.

Dejectedly, he rose to his feet and dragged himself to the shed. Mama meant it this time. He realized he could banter and drone, or whine and feign excuses to postpone even the smallest chore. He was exceptionally astute at engaging his mother until she became thoroughly exasperated, causing him to imagine that perhaps a chink had been made in the armor. However, when her remarks included unsympathetic declarations, reinforced by the threat of a switching, the weight of the matter had clearly shifted to the opposition, especially when punctuated with the dreaded last seven words, And that’s all there is to it. But still, he remained unconvinced that such menial, repetitious drudgery should take precedent over his own well-oiled, pivotal enterprises.

He had scarcely opened the door to the shed when he heard a vehicle pull to the edge of the graveled street in front of the house. It was unnecessary to look. He knew instantly it was old #9, the gray pick-up lineman’s truck with the ladder on top which had parked in that same spot for as long as he could remember. Ranger, successor to Midnight, charged from beneath the house, scampering toward the truck, barking excitedly, causing Devreaux to realize that he had indeed, procrastinated about the lawn much too long. Hurriedly, he jerked the rotary-blade mower from inside the shed. Flipping it with sudden dispatch upon one side, he dropped dramatically to one knee, commenced rotating a wheel, and studiously manipulated the wooden roller back and forth. For what seem like an inordinately long time, he fidgeted, grimaced, pondered, and postured, being extremely careful not to look anywhere in the vicinity of the house. Finally, he heard the back screen door close, glanced quickly with one eye to espy a slowly moving figure emerging. His palms perspired. His heart beat rapidly. Without breaking his gaze, he continued to fumble and tinker unnecessarily with the wheel and roller.

Impressed, but unconvinced by the admirably executed theatrics, Rueben judged the boy to be in enough torment already and elected to let him squirm his way out of his self-inflicted predicament.

What’s the problem, son?

Devreaux was so totally unnerved that he almost fell forward across the mower. Er, I think I can fix it!

What is it? Rueben repeated, kneeling down for closer inspection.

I think there must be some wire or twine wrapped up in there somewhere, Devreaux grunted, lips pursed, staring intently, while poking an unsteady finger between the wheel and rotary blade.

I don’t see any wire, son. Is it just hard to push, or …

Oh, wait! I may have it fixed now! Let’s see if it pushes any better.

Returning the mower to the upright position, he put it to the test by pushing and pulling it back and forth two or three times while eagle-eyeing the rotary action. I hope it works this time, or I’m never gonna get this yard finished. His face assumed a determined, confident, expression as he thrust the full weight of his body against the wooden handle. Smooth and away the mower rolled, flipping grass clippings upon his shoe tops. Yeah, I guess I got it fixed now, Daddy, he shouted without breaking stride or looking back.

Justine stood at the kitchen sink preparing a vegetable side salad for the evening meal. A light, warm breeze wafted through the open window above the sink, causing the curtains to brush against her arms. A pan of dough, readied for the oven, was in its usual place on top of the stove covered with a dishcloth. The table was set and water heating to pour into the tea pitcher. All was in order. Although her judicious efficiency was at times vexing, Rueben appreciated her ability to prepare a full course meal, while cleaning any mess in the process. Her fastidious nature and thoroughly organized manner were nowhere more obvious than in the kitchen.

I’ll swear, that boy does have a way of getting around things, don’t he? Rueben admitted, half smiling.

I’ve been after him all day about mowing the yard. This morning, he said the dew was too heavy. Right after lunch, he claimed to have a stomachache. Then, the middle of the afternoon, he said he was going to wait until it cooled off. She paused peeling a tomato to brush an unruly tress from her forehead with the back of her hand. Nodding toward where Devreaux was mowing, she added, That’s the first lick he’s hit all day.

That’s about what I expected.

Turning to the stove, Justine removed the cloth from the bread pan and slipped the pan into the oven. Wasting no steps, she lifted a small bottle of seasoning from one of the cabinets beside the sink, unscrewed the lid, and shook the contents vigorously over the fresh salad. He’s been out there under that big chinaberry most of the day. I walked out there earlier and he had proceeded to dig a hole about a foot deep with a hatchet, jobbed some little ole pointed sticks in the bottom of it, and covered it with leaves. I asked him what he thought he was doing and he said he was gonna trap a bird.

And he was sitting right there almost on top of the hole, I suspect.

Sure was. But he said if he’d sit right still, they’d think he was a statue.

Uh huh. He can do a real good imitation of a statue.

Then, I went out there a while ago and found him all sprawled out, gazing off into the wild blue, like he was under some kind of spell. I asked him what he was doing and he said, he was ‘figuring’.

I expect he was.

Oh, he was figuring alright. Trying to come up with some way to get the grass cut without having to do it himself.

Rueben walked slowly across the floor, leaned against the door facing, and stared out the screen door. Sighing beneath his breath, he pulled the tail of his short-sleeved shirt out of his pants. Folding his bare arms across his brawny chest, he watched Devreaux meticulously overlap cutting paths of the lawnmower. Uncomfortably aware that he was under scrutiny, Devreaux modestly emoted, providing an extra kick to his step. Avoiding looking directly toward the house, he subtlety assessed the situation by inconspicuously exercising peripheral vision.

Rueben’s concern, however, was not Devreaux. Despite staring directly at him, his mind was dejectedly preoccupied. Gathering himself, biting his upper lip softly, he reluctantly broke the silence.

I’m gonna have to work tonight, Justine, he said, apologetically, eyes still fixed upon Devreaux.

Justine made no immediate reply. Clearly agitated, she raised her head to peer icily through the window. The metal paring knife dropped from her hand, rattling loudly against the sink. It was her turn to inhale a deep breath.

You know I had planned on us going to Mama’s tonight after supper. She hesitated for a long, ragged breath, untied her apron, and turned to face Rueben. We always go to Mama’s on Wednesday nights. Why’d you let them talk you into working tonight, of all nights?

Rueben continued to stare outside at nothing in particular. His jaws tightened. He realized any response would be insufficient. He sensed Justine’s eyes angrily regarding him, awaiting, demanding some attempt to justify what he had never been able to satisfactorily justify before, and never could. Slowly lowering himself into his chair at the kitchen table, he toyed with the flatware beside his plate.

I didn’t let them talk me into it, Justine. It’s my job. That’s what I do. There was no other choice.

I’d like to know why not? Isn’t sun-up until sun-down enough to expect from any human?

But this couldn’t be taken care of during the day, Justine. We have to wait until late when the gin shuts down. You know we can’t shut down a cotton gin during the day at harvest time.

We? What do you mean, ‘we’?

Well, alright then, me.

That’s what I mean, Rueben. You don’t see other men out chasing around all over creation late at night, leaving their families at home.

I’m a trouble-shooter, Justine.

There are other trouble-shooters.

But the gin is in my territory, not theirs.

It’s a mystery to me why everything happens in your territory.

Justine, we’ve been through all that before. I don’t like it any better than you do. I’ve already put in a long day and what I’d really like to do is go in there and go to bed right now. But at ten o’clock tonight, I’m supposed to be at Cottonwood Junction to change out some wiring at the Portis gin before it shorts out that whole end of the county.

Cottonwood Junction? My Lord, you’ll be gone all night.

Well, I can’t do anything about that. But that shouldn’t stop us from going to your Mama’s. We could be home and you and Devreaux be in bed asleep by the time I have to leave.

No, we’ll just stay right here.

Stay here? Why?

We’ll just stay here she snapped frostily, and that’s all there is to it.

There were certain times Rueben found it extremely difficult to suppress accumulated exasperations. This was one of those times. Neither arguments nor defensive explanations were a part of his nature. Both were something to which he had been unaccustomed … until he married Justine. He abhorred mouthings and petty bickerings. Admired by his peers for his high moral consciousness and physical stamina, they remarked among themselves mostly about his chiseled muscularity. A man powerful enough to single-handedly maneuver heavy wooden crossarms and bulky transformers at the top of a utility pole forty feet in the air, steadied only by two lineman’s hooks gaffed into creosoted wood, leaning backwards against a wide leather tool-belt, commanded their respect. But here again, was the pathetic contrast: the personification of firm-jawed strength, confronted by a frail figure whose capacity for demanding rudely outweighed the feasibility of her demanding anything at all.

Alright, if it’s more important to you to be contrary than to go see your mama, just sull up and stay here then.

At that, Justine turned briskly to tend final meal preparations, punctuated by exaggerated jerking, slinging, and heavy sighings. Next came the silent anger. Following the slapdash collection of food into bowls and platters, it was indelicately, half-tossed upon the table, rattling like a handful of loose coins emptied from someone’s purse. Pouring hot water through the sieve over tea leaves into the carnival glass pitcher, Justine sharply instructed, You can call Devreaux in to eat now.

Approaching the screen door, Rueben shook his head in short, measured movements. Devreaux saw him from the corner of his eye. With an audible grunt, he leaned mightily into the mower to cut an impressive swath for at least thirty feet before acknowledging his daddy’s voice.

Did you call me? he finally answered, inflecting a patronizing tone little boys use when asking parents questions to which answers are already known.

It’s suppertime.

Just let me go ahead and finish the back yard before I quit. It won’t take but a minute.

Right now, Rueben insisted.

Yes Sir.

The only sound to be heard throughout the meal was the clicking of flatware against plates and an occasional request that something be passed. Devreaux was all too familiar with the awkward silence. Regardless, it was still a bitter dose, particularly since it was the only meal of the day the three of them shared together. It was extremely difficult for him not to look up from his plate, or not chew too loud, or to even be aware of what he was eating. He was much relieved when he had finished eating and welcomed the opportunity to dismiss himself from the table.

I think I’ll go finish the yard now, before it gets dark.

Don’t be long, Justine instructed. We’re going to Mama’s directly.

Yes Ma’am. Rueben’s chin lowered slightly as he pushed away from the table.

**********************

The headlights of the 1944 Plymouth beamed low against the shallow-rutted country road. Devreaux was somewhat disappointed that the family sedan was motoring along on a dusty road. He frequently rubbed on the jet black car with a dry cloth, being especially attentive to the chrome hood ornament fashioned in the likeness, according to his daddy, of one of the sailing ships landing at Plymouth Rock. He wondered about that every time he poked a forefinger into the rag to get at that part of the wheels not covered by hub caps. A broom, or the small end of a ball bat, served to beat dust from the felt seat covers. If the rag was well shaken, spittle revived luster to the dash and steering column. It was a fine vehicle, regularly providing luxurious transport for the young dreamer’s innumerable imaginary travels to various exotic destinations throughout the continental United States. Sometimes, he was the town constable engaged in high speed pursuit of hardened, ruthless criminals. At other times, he and one of several pretend friends leisurely surveyed assorted sights as far as paved roads stretched, maybe even as far away as China. Even more frequently, the Plymouth metamorphosed into a sleek, luxury limousine in which he grandly chauffeured his parents, along with his own wife and children, to some auspicious event at which he was the keynote speaker. Now, in real life, the much traveled vehicle tootled along, taking a beating on a rub-board, dirt country road to a destination considerably beneath his own starry-eyed designs, but, nonetheless, a destination anxiously anticipated.

We need to leave here a little after 8:00 o’clock so I can get on over to Cottonwood Junction. Rueben reminded, as the Plymouth pulled slowly to the side of the road in front of the Gammill residence.

Justine made no reply, except for a resentful sigh, hard-blown through both nostrils. Even before the car had come to a complete stop, Devreaux bolted from the back seat and dashed eagerly across the yard onto the long, open porch where two shadowy figures sat, barely visible in near darkness.

Looky here, looky here, smiled the silver-haired woman, leaning forward from the porch swing, arms outstretched. Here’s my big boy!" Devreaux threw his arms around her and they both grunted aloud to emphasize a long, mutual hug.

Now, wait a minute, interrupted the man sitting in a cane back rocking chair adjacent to the swing. You aim to give her all the hugging? I never heard such carrying on.

Devreaux bounded from the swing into the rocking chair, almost toppling it backwards, bestowing equal attention upon the older gentleman. Additional greetings and back-patting hugs were exchanged as Justine and Rueben stepped onto the porch.

Light, unhurried conversation assumed lower, softer tones than during daylight hours. Occasionally, there were extended intervals of contented silence which no one felt constrained to interrupt. There was no agenda, no particular topic requiring resolution, no urgency to perfunctorily segue to another subject. There was only the slow, unpretentious, almost sacramental dialogue which conveyed a message of its own, independent of spoken words.

After a while, Devreaux lowered his head into his grandmother’s lap. The steady, rhythmic movement of the swing, subdued voices, faint grinding of the swing’s chain against the ceiling hook, and the soft pat of the wooden rocker against the floor, all began to weave their spell upon his tired body. Grandmother Gammill, whom he and every other family member called Mama, leisurely fanned the length of his body with a folded portion of newspaper to whisk away pesky mosquitoes. Paw Paw Gammill allowed that the mosquito was the state bird. Devreaux wondered if the snapping of the folded paper was intentionally synchronized with creaking of the swing’s chain, or if it just seemed that way. Even in his half-sleep, he was alert to each quiet word spoken on the porch. Additionally, a chorus of frogs made their croaking noises from a nearby pond. A whippoorwill called out to another, which replied almost like a duplicated echo. His sensitive, flypaper mind continued to absorb sound and circumstance even at rest.

The cozy warmth of Mama’s lap conjured both conscious and semi-conscious images. He recalled Mama’s slow, deliberate movements as she prepared meals on the large cook stove in the kitchen. There was a reservoir at one end, two food warming spaces above, and iron covers for the four holes on the stovetop. The lifter, one end fashioned to fit slots in the covers, hanged at the end of the stove nearest the wood box. He recalled the clean, fresh smell of the house. Window curtains, having been stretched on wooden frames, remained stiff in a soft breeze, and bed sheets were somehow made to tuck snugly against featherbeds. Mama was as meticulous about her house and person as was his own mother. He recalled those times his parents had allowed him to spend the night, or sometimes in the Fall, almost a week with Mama and Paw Paw. At evening, Mama always sat him on the kitchen table, stripped him to the waist, washcloth in hand, and scrubbed the day’s accumulated impurities into a porcelain basin. Invariably, there was the bar of pink Lifebouy soap, its peculiar smell lingering long after Mama’s firm, but gentle ablution. She was so loving and unpretentious in every way. He was unable to recall a single instance when she had not managed a smile or light chuckle, regardless of circumstance. He had never heard her raise her voice, behave angrily, or exhibit impatience.

Paw Paw Gammill’s shoe tapped the floor of the porch each time his chair rocked forward. He was a decent, hard-working, uncomplicated soul who drank hard liquor on rare occasions and rolled his own cigarettes from a bag of Bull Durham tobacco kept in the breast pocket of his overalls. Apparently, he knew only three curse words, or at least in Devreaux hearing: Damn, sometimes blurted out at such unexpected times as appeared to surprise Paw Paw himself; Sombitch, reserved exclusively for politicians regardless of rank or station; and Yankee, which is not actually a curse word, except by his definition. Paw Paw crossed Devreaux’s mind too. He had been to the fields with him. When first allowed to pick cotton alongside Paw Paw, he had used a two gallon bucket, emptying what cotton he managed to pick into Paw Paw’s sack. Then, Paw Paw one day wired a strap onto a burlap bag, or ‘croaker sack,’ and the bucket was superseded by a homemade ‘pick-sack.’ Paw Paw loved to play Chinese checkers. Devreaux reminisced about the many nights they had played until both could hardly keep their eyes open. He remembered the time Paw Paw was returning from the barn carrying two buckets of fresh milk and, just as he threw a leg over the top wire of the waist-high fence, he