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Jennifer Hicky Southern Story Dr. Chappel
The Library
"Warren, Robert Penn Warren, in the Southern Fiction section.How he came up with the different authors, she never knew, or at least she never told us. I do know he read a lot. Never spoke to no one, just walked around with his curly locks lost in some hardback. No one knew much about him besides his occupation. He was some landscaper of some sort, not your typical gardener though. He made all kinds of weird art things, if you want my opinion I'd say he was plum crazy. Had his head stuck in all those silly books, why it's no wonder he couldn't just plant a tree or two and leave be. Hell no, he had to go and cause a fuss by creating some sexual waterfall or some hi-fallutin' rose bed." The old man spoke with a comforting awareness. His deep southern accent was engraved with the many wrinkles of his weathered face. Peter did not know which looked older, the man or the sagging porch they sat on. "Yes. Yes, I see, but tell me, did she love him?" Peter had
been trying to get this question out the whole time, but the old man apparently
loved to talk, or at least to be listened to. "Boy,ain't you been listening to me? She was obsessed with the lunatic. He called himself an artist, but to me was just some crazy fool. Filled her head full of all these romantic thoughts, swept her off her feet I tell ya. You know she never read a good book in her life until she met that boy. That's about the only good thing that come from the whole damn affair, or so her momma says. She was readin' all day long, kept her out of trouble is what her momma told me. I didn't ever agree because I thought the books were killing her. She'd shake and cry and even run out of the house after finishing one of them books. It was like a curse or something. Ain't never seen nor heard nothing like it."
"What was she reading? Do you remember the name of any of the books?" asked Peter.
"Come to think of it we have a list of nearly every one of 'em. Upstairs in the green chest, that's where her momma keeps her things in case she ever returns, but I know she won't. I can't get that through my wife's thick head." The old man pointed a shaky finger towards the round window that overlooked the farm. "The books, can I see them?" "I don't know boy, her momma is awful protective of the things
in that chest. You'll have to deal with my wife if you want to look in
it. I'm the man in the house,but I'm telling you she's one helluva woman
to live with. Sometimes she gets so mad when I even mention Eva's name.
It's like she blames me for her disappearing! It wasn't my damn fault the
boy left town. That sonuvabitch has caused my wife more pain than I have,
that ain't right." Peter was both apprehensive as well as curious about Eva's affair. His curiosity won the battle. "Back to the library thing, they'd meet there at night?"
"Sir, I would love to sit and chat all day long about the political underlings of this fine town, but my train leaves in one hour. Could you answer me a few more of my questions then I'll be on my way?"
"You first mister eager britches. Why are you so interested in my daughter's past?" The old man growled.
"Like I told you, we were in love, or at least I was in love with Eva for three years. We had planned to get married after I finished my schooling at Harvard. We were both going to be writers, or at least so I thought. I never knew she had this other love." Peter heard his own voice, but it seemed so distant, like the voice of a ghost.
"She ain't never mentioned you boy, not a word about you. For all I know you're some reporter or something lying to me. If you're not telling me the truth I'm gonna get my gun and shoot you right here on my porch." The old man leaned as if to stand, his knees popped in reply to the motion.
"Sir, please let's not resort to barbaric violence, I'm not lying. I knew your daughter through a mutual friend of ours. She introduced me and Eva at an arts festival in Cookton." Peter couldn't help from liking the old man with his feeble angriness and all.
"I knew it was a damn mistake sending her to that silly thing. Her teachers told us that our baby was a talented writer and we needed to send her to some fair where she could learn about colleges. I said hell no, but her momma said, 'over my dead body will my daughter miss such a fine opportunity.' I couldn't kill my wife, so I had to let Eva go. Damned mistake if I ever saw one. No hard feelings boy, but I'm damn glad she didn't ever tell me about you. I don't like nobody born outside the sacred line."
"The Mason-Dixon sir? I was born in Mississippi." Peter felt for sure this would win the man's affection.
"Hell no, boy. I'm talking about the Georgia State line. That's the only reason I even let her think about that gardening boy. He was a peach, born and raised in this fine state. To overlook that would be durn near sinful. My family, as far back as my great grandmother could remember, had been from Georgia. I promised her on her deathbed I'd keep it that way." "That's probably why she never told you about me. She knew it would
kill you if she married some foreigner," Peter replied "Yes, yes I suppose so son. Tell me, how long did you know my Eva?" "Like I said, we were in love for three or four years. I only saw
her once though. It was enough, because I never stopped thinking about
her after the festival. I had been invited as a guest lecturer, I wrote
a lot during school, on the impact of civil rights after the revolution.
Your daughter asked me a question in one of my seminars, from then on,
I have never loved another. It wasn't her beauty, though as you probably
think. It was her voice, she was nervous, but she stood up in the crowd
and asked me something, I don't remember what, for I was entranced by her
emotional being. Her shaky harp like voice penetrated my very..." "Boy, that's the last I'll hear of such nonsense, you understand.
I don't need no poetry or love story told to me. Just get on with the story." "I'm sorry sir, it's just that when I think of Eva, I get so, so..." "One more word that deals with love and I'm gonna blow your brains
all over my chickens down there in the yard." "I'm sorry. I just uh, oh yea, I left the seminar and vowed to write your daughter every week. For three straight years I sent her a letter every Monday. She returned the gesture and we developed a very strong literary relationship. I guess you could say we fell in love through what we both did best, writing. I asked her to marry me and she said she didn't know me well enough. She told me to come visit and then maybe things would work out. I was planning a trip to come visit her and meet you all, when suddenly the return letters stopped coming. I thought something terrible had happened so I hopped the first train from Boston and here I am." "Boy, I'm sorry if I have hurt your feelings. You seem like a nice young man. Hell I may have even allowed you two to marry pending your changing your place of permanent residence. But she's gone now, run off with that lunatic. I should have seen it coming." "Have you heard from her since? Does she write?" "One time we got a telegram saying she was all right and that when
the time came she'd be coming home. The telegram was from Atlanta. It's
up there in the chest, and if you can elude her momma you'll find the rest
of what you need to know right there with it." The old man got out
a red handkerchief and wiped his swelling eyes "One last thing . . ." Peter knew he had invaded this man's emotional side enough, but he just had to find out about the affair before he left. "Make it quick boy, your trains a leavin' and my animals is hungry." "Sure thing, I appreciate your time sir, but I'm still confused
about the whole affair idea. She met the landscaper who was in town to
do some work for some historic society and a battle ground?" "Yeah, yeah, they wanted him to decorate the warzone, boy did he
ever fix it up. Had it looking like one of them golf courses with streams
and what have you." "I see. Well anyway, your daughter didn't like to read, but I know
she loved to write." "Boy what you gettin' at?" "I just don't understand the whole Library notion. Why there? Why
didn't they meet at the hotel or the barn for that sake? It just doesn't
make sense." "Boy a lot of things don't make sense. Two of my calves died last
week. Why? Who the hell knows! My daughter ran away with some crazy, handsome
devil. I'll never know why, I don't think nobody knows why, but strange
things happen. They do boy, they just do." With that, the old man slowly stood from his wicker chair and hobbled
down the steps. He picked up the pail and began throwing the seed onto
the ground. Peter looked at the round figure and smiled. Poor old man's
lost more than I have, he lost his daughter. I lost something I never really
had. Peter decided to avoid the scuffle over the chest. He had heard
enough. He didn't need to hurt these people any more than they had already
been hurt. He picked up his case and headed off towards the station. He
had thirty minutes until his train left, so he decided to visit the Library. He had seen it on the way in. The farmer was right. The colossal gray marble edifice looked so damn silly in between the hardware store and the saloon style courthouse. There were many steps leading up to the doorway, and he felt like the eyes of the town were on him as he clambered his way to the top. The building, obviously of Greek architectural derivation, emitted cold, profuse lighting on the shambles below. Peter quickly entered the lobby, and at once began shivering. It's freezing in here, how could they have? "Ma'am, could you please tell me where the fiction works are?" "Who are you boy? Do you have a card for this library?" asked
the rotund old lady behind the massive front desk. "No ma'am. I 'm just traveling though, waiting on my two-thirty
train. Nice place you have here. You don't mind if I look around, do you?" "Well, I guess not. Nobody's ever here anyway. Oh go ahead, the
place you're looking for is around the corner past the stairwell, last
section of shelves to the right." "Thank you, ma am." Warren, Robert Penn Warren, Peter had read all his tales. His favorite
no doubt being The Cave. It was about love and pain, the truth and
what seems to be true. He found a frazzled copy of The Cave on the
shelf past the stairwell. Its old smell reminded him of his grandfather's
study. All those old leather hardbacks his grandfather accumulated emanated
a stale, yellow smell like that of a courtroom. Peter opened the book and
began reading from the first chapter. A boy and a girl in the woods touching
and feeling. Peter closed his eyes. He envisioned Eva and her lover here
in the aisle amongst the old, odorous books. The cold marble biting her
back as she lay down. Her lover, reading softly from the worn pages, slowly
undoing her blouse. The quiet, still air lending to the erotic feelings
of being caught, the surrounding pages crafting the tale of two lovers
finding each other amidst the swirl of life. The farmers outside wondering
what in the hell those two did in such a dungeon. Peter wiped away the edge of a teardrop, stuffed the book in his case and quietly walked out of the building. He had never stolen a thing in his life. It felt good, he felt victorious. He had a piece of Eva now to take with him wherever her words led him. It made sense to him now, the Library, the man, Eva. He was not very very sad, or at least not angry about losing Eva. He was well aware of the power such feelings for one person entailed. He felt like a reporter, or a curious bystander indulging in a fairytale. He decided to create a myth out of the wonderful Eva. A tale perhaps to lead young lovers on their own journey, much like his own. Once on the train, he took a piece of paper from his case, and while fingering his favorite pen, he gazed out into the pasture that ran alongside the train. He watched as the willows in the distance floated back towards town. He leaned over the paper and did what he knew . . . The Library, their sanctuary, their field, their cave... |
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This site is maintained by Deborah Chappel, dchappel@astate.edu This page was updated 07/18/05 |