The Morning and the Evening (15 page)

“I just as soon not say nothing about his not talkin',” Homer said.

“I agree to that,” Red said.

The others said they did too.

“Who's going to sign this here saying you suspect him of being in-sane?” Homer said.

Nobody said anything.

“Well, we'll just have to let them folks decide that,” Homer said, and read on: “Blank is suspected of being in-sane, is not an idiot or feebleminded; that blank is a poor person—” He looked up. “Well, Jake is shore that,” he said. He looked at the paper again and read, “—and has no estate or property except——What's he got?”

“Nothing but that old house that's no more'n a shack now,” Buck French said.

“Well, that ain't going to count nothin' in his favor, do you reckon?” Homer said.

“I don't see how it could,” Hoyt said.

“Nah,” Red said.

Homer said, “Who's ever going to sign this has got to swear Jake don't have anybody legally liable for his maintenance. And he don't have that——”

“Unless somebody knows where Jud's at,” Buck French said.

“Well, nobody does know,” Homer said. “And I doubt if he could take care of him if they did find him, from whatever I heard about him after he left.”

“I heard he done right well,” Hoyt said.

“Don't anybody know is the fact,” Homer said. “Well, it says he's got to be a citizen of the country and a resident of this state for twelve months and wasn't in-sane when he come into—well, he ain't never been out of, so we don't have to worry. And has been a resident of said county for sixty, then it says six-o in parentheses, days or more and was not—oh well, he ain't ever been out of his own county even. Uh-oh,” he said, turning over the page.

The two on the back seat sat forward and Hoyt said, “What?”

“Two doctors got to sign this,” Homer said. He looked at the men in the back and then turned and looked at Red, who had taken his eyes off the road to turn and look at him. Then Red looked in the rear-view mirror at the other two. They all thought of the possibility of failure and of their wives. Buck French told himself, Kate'll be up here tomorrow if I don't do it, and somehow she'll get it done.

“They got to be practicing physicians of the county,” Homer said. “They got to this day personally examine him and declare about how old he is—well, we can tell 'em about how old he is—that he ain't subject to no contagious diseases—you don't reckon he is, do you?”

“If he is, I don't know where he got 'em, 'less it was from that old cow he used to have,” Buck French said, and laughed.

“Or somebody's bitch,” Red said.

Everybody laughed.

“And declare,” Homer said, “that the in-sanity is of blank duration—what would you say, lifetime, I guess—and that he ain't a idiot or feebleminded—well, we'll just have to trust to luck—and that the medical treatment has been blank, blank, blank. Then in parentheses it says, ‘Here set out the medical treatment and all circumstances known to the physician tending to illustrate the same.' You-all understand all that?”

“Not exactly,” Hoyt said.

“It's all right,” Buck said.

“Then there's a place where the deputy probate clerk got to sign and the judge of probate court. Whew, we're liable to be here till suppertime,” Homer said. “And—” he paused for effect and looked around before he said—“the judge has to appoint a guardian—a suitable and proper person, it says, to act as guardian
a-d
and another word
l-i-t-e-m
for the defendant in this cause. What could those words mean?”

“It's some legal flibbery-gibbery,” Buck French said.

“I know that,” Homer said.

“You reckon it means a guardian for the rest of his life or something like that?” Red said. “You know ain't none of us going to sign up to do that or anybody else in Marigold.”

“Well, let's worry about it when we get there,” Buck said.

The courthouse was in the middle of town, set on a square, and the highway led right past it. Red had to slow for a light hung over the road and as they waited for it, an old Ford pick-up crossed before them, a bird dog sitting alertly on the fender. When the light changed, Red pulled from the highway straight into one of the parking places at angles to the square. The square was patchy with grass and was mostly dirt; it was shaded by two magnolia trees so enormous they spread over the entire front of the square. Old men, some with open flies, sat about on benches in the shade.

A black dog carrying a slice of white bread in his mouth looked for a place to eat it; he passed before the men as they entered the cool concrete interior of the building. Brass spittoons lined the corridor and signs were posted, headed in large letters by
WARNING
or
WANTED
or
FOR SALE
. They stopped the first person they met, and Red asked the way to the deputy probate clerk. His office was crowded when they entered it, and they had to stand in line until almost noon waiting their turn. He was a little man sitting behind a large desk, and they told him their story: how Jake had run about and foamed and made the terrible noises; they swore that he was a citizen of the state and county, that they suspected him of being insane, that they did not
think
he was an idiot or feebleminded, that he was poor, that he had no one legally liable for him, and all the other things that they had to swear to. The deputy probate clerk filled in the blanks as he read along, and then he said, “Which one of you is going to sign this?”

Nobody said anything; they stuck their hands in their pockets and shuffled their feet. The clerk said, “Well?”

“Can more'n one of us sign?” Hoyt said.

“One,” the clerk said.

Homer said, “Red, you drove the car, why don't you sign?”

So Red signed. But he told himself all the time he was writing in “William Thomas Anderson,” it really wasn't like he was doing it, because since he had been born nobody had ever called him anything but Red, even in the Army.

With a small flourish the clerk signed his own name in the proper blank, then he consulted some papers and a calendar and said, “There's a commitment hearing here tomorrow. Can he be brought in tomorrow?”

“Don't see why not,” Buck French said. “He's just sitting in the jail in Whitehill.”

“Well, I'd better get word to the marshal there to bring him here today and put him in the jail here. Then I'll be sure he's going to appear tomorrow. Folks are always not turning up when they're supposed to. Now you-all take this down two doors to the sheriff to sign. Next.”

They took the paper the two doors and joined the line there. Only now Red held the paper and stood in the line and the others lounged about the door waiting for him. They had come around a corner of the building, and this room was bright with hot October sunshine. Red stared out the window like a schoolboy trapped indoors while others moved about freely. He saw the dog with the bread still in its mouth begin another search of the square. He felt a mosquito bite him on the back of the neck and heard its singing like the steady hum of the voices in the room. Suddenly he was next and he moved up and handed the sheriff his paper. The sheriff chewed his cigar and without looking up read the paper; then he filled in the proper blanks and signed it. He looked up then and said, “You got to get these blanks on the other side filled in by two doctors. Then you got to bring me back this form. Where is this Jake Darby at?”

“In the jail in Whitehill,” Red said. “That other clerk said he'd get him brought here today, though.”

“Good,” the sheriff said. “Then he'll be in my jail this afternoon and I'll see to it he's up before the judge—let me see—Maurice's got him down here for ten
A.M
. tomorrow.”

“About the doctors …” Red said.

“Take the form over yonder to Doc Lawrence in that house next to the big sign that says Justice of the Peace. He's retired, but he's still got a license. It'll cost about five dollars.”

“Much obliged,” Red said.

He joined the others and told them about the five dollars; they were sorry but all agreed it was worth it; they would all chip in. They went outside and followed the sheriff's directions until they came to the house. It still had the doctor's name on a small placard in one window. He opened the door for them and they stood in his hallway and told him what they wanted. Before Red had half finished, the doctor was already nodding in agreement as if he had heard it all before. He had palsy quite badly but managed to write his name, and almost on the line. Then he called to his wife and had her fill in the other blanks certifying to Jake's approximate age, and to the duration of the insanity, and that he had no other contagious diseases and that he was not an idiot or feebleminded. His wife said, “I declare, there is more folks putting more folks in the state hospital than the law ought to allow. More than they got room for anyhow, I know that much.” She looked at them over her glasses as if they ought to be ashamed.

Red said to the doctor, “This boy's back in Whitehill and we want to get all this done today if we can. Is there anybody else could sign this without having to look at him?”

“I'd take it over to the clinic if it 'as me,” the doctor said. He pointed the way. “And say that I sent you.”

They went straight down his street and around a corner. The clinic was new too, very plain, and of the same light-colored brick as the courthouse. The yard had just been seeded and a Negro who was watering it turned the hose away from them as they passed.

Someone in the clinic signed it. They could not read who. The name was written as illegibly as a prescription. They had simply gone inside and presented the paper to the nurse-receptionist, told her what they wanted, and said that Doctor Lawrence had sent them. She had not been doing anything but buffing her nails when they came in, but she put the buffer down and looked quite annoyed before she took the paper. Without a word she disappeared through a swinging door, and they glimpsed her for a moment going on her quiet heels down a short bare hall. Presently, she returned with the paper signed, looking more cheerful.

“Is there any …” Red said.

“No,” she said, before he finished, “there's no charge.”

They all said they were much obliged and raised their hats. She smiled and watched them as they went out, again buffing her nails.

The sheriff was already late going out to lunch. He took the paper and said, “You got him a guardian?”

“What exactly do those two other words mean?” Homer said.

“What other two words?” the sheriff said.

“A-d …” Homer said.

“It just means he's got to have a guardian while the hearing's going on,” the sheriff said. “Somebody who's supposed to protect his rights because he ain't fit to do it hisself, else he shouldn't be here. You all tell me now, 'cause I'm fixing to go acrost this square and feed my face.”

“Shoot, none of us wants to drive back to Desoto tomorrow,” Hoyt said. “Why don't we make somebody else guardian? J. T. was all hot on this, but didn't want to come up today. Let's tell him he has to tomorrow.”

“Yeah, put down J. T. Veazey,” Red said.

“The judge does it,” the sheriff said. “But you tell Brother Veazey to be here at ten o'clock tomorrow or this don't get done.”

“So long,” Red said.

“Goodbye,” the sheriff said. He came out the door after them and locked it. “You boys looking for a little lunch, there's a good café right acrost the square, Bubba's.”

“Much obliged,” Homer said. “But I reckon we'll get on back home, won't we?” He looked at the others.

“The womenfolks will bust their bustles if we don't get back and tell them what's happened,” Buck said.

“There's only one thing I sure wish we could do, though,” Homer said.

“What's that?” Red said.

“Get a ice-cream soda at the drugstore,” Homer said.

They all agreed it would be too bad to miss the opportunity for one. They walked across the square with the sun falling on them in stipples through the dark shiny leaves of the magnolias. When they came out of the shade to cross the road, it was a surprise when the sun fell on them, one hot glare after the little speckles. At the drugstore the black dog sniffed about the screen door. “Get on out of here, dog,” Red said, opening the door. They went inside. The room was dark and cool and stuffy with the odor of medicines and of the refrigerated box that held the ice cream. The ceiling fan was going, but the owner turned it off when they came in. “What can I do for you boys?” he said.

They climbed onto stools at the fountain and said they would have ice-cream sodas, strawberry, all of them. Then they looked around at two girls sitting at a little round table sipping Cokes in glasses full of shaved ice, and they studied the dirty-looking cases with their crepe-paper-lined shelves full of boxes and bottles of things that made women look good and smell pretty. They drank the sodas slowly and then climbed reluctantly from the stools and paid. When they went outside, the heat made the coldness in their stomachs send a pain through their temples and eyeballs. For a moment they felt sick at their stomachs, and then the moment passed. “Ah,” Red said.

“You let that dog in,” Homer told Hoyt.

Hoyt went back but returned in a moment and said the owner had said it was all right, it was his dog.

They crossed the road and went along the sidewalk in twos to the car. Attached to the windshield wiper was a small white card. “Oh shit,” Red said, untying it. “I forgot to put money in the thing-a-ma-gig.” He read the card. “But look,” he said. “It's a note that says, ‘Welcome Visitor.' Then it goes on to explain what the meter is for and asks that the next time you use it.” They got into the car in the same positions in which they had come.