Penn Cage 04 - Natchez Burning

“How do you know?”

 

 

“Men are simple creatures, but they’re not all the same. Many from your father’s generation, doctors especially, went a little crazy in the 1960s. They’d grown up in the corseted thirties and forties, studied day and night, married as virgins. Then suddenly the world changed. They were making money, they were respected, and women threw themselves at their feet. A lot of them rogered everything wearing a skirt. They never considered leaving their wives, of course. They just wanted sex.”

 

“And Dad?”

 

“Your father wasn’t one of those. Tom was a fine and faithful fellow. But that kind of man is susceptible to a different kind of temptation. You see, the women of that period—women like your mother—grew up with the biggest dose of Calvinist guilt and shame any American women ever got. And it gave them problems in the boudoir. Even faithful husbands couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be with a woman who didn’t carry that crippling burden.”

 

“A woman like Viola?”

 

Pithy shrugs. “Who knows? She was part Creole, and those girls were wise in the ways of love. Although not all black women were the unfettered carnal creatures of myth. Negro girls got a heavy dose of guilt in their churches, too. But some women, black or white, are just different. You’ve heard the expression ‘old soul’? Well, some women are born with a free soul. A soul that all the fire and brimstone in the world can’t hem in. I knew a girl like that in college. When women like that give themselves, they give everything, even if it kills them. And I don’t think any man alive can resist that.”

 

“Was Viola like that?”

 

Pithy focuses on some invisible point in space. “Yes. I felt it before I saw it. Viola was beautiful, but there was something hidden beneath her beauty. ‘Still waters run deep,’ the saying goes. And your father wasn’t the kind to miss that. No one could ever say Tom Cage was slow.”

 

“Did Viola love him?”

 

Pithy looks at me like a disappointed tutor. “Viola recognized Tom the same way he did her. One man in ten thousand. Lord, I was half in love with him myself. Still am, and I’m old as dirt.”

 

Just as I smile again, Pithy brings me back to reality with a kick in the gut. “Are you afraid he really killed her, Penn?”

 

I look deep into her watery eyes. “If I told you he did, would you doubt me?”

 

“Not if it was done from mercy. For any other reason, yes. I’m counting on Tom to help me when my time comes. When the oxygen stops working, and all that’s left is to lie here suffocating … I’ll know it’s time.”

 

I squeeze her hand again. “Has he told you he would?”

 

“He doesn’t have to tell me. He’ll do the right thing when the time comes. Your father’s got more courage than any man I’ve met since my husband, the consequences be damned.”

 

“Viola’s death wasn’t a mercy killing.”

 

“Then Tom didn’t do it. I heard she died terribly, but I didn’t know what was true. If that’s the case, then don’t waste a minute worrying about it.”

 

“How can you be so sure?”

 

“Because I know Tom. Murder’s not in him.”

 

I look at the floor. “I’m not sure what’s in him anymore.”

 

Pithy flicks her left hand as though at a fly. “Pooh. Not in any universe could Tom Cage murder a woman he loved. But having an affair … any man can do that. Woman, too.” Pithy draws her fingers from beneath my hand and takes hold of my wrist. “Let me tell you one of my secrets. When I was twenty-one, my father seduced my best friend. My mother had no idea, of course, but it happened.”

 

Pithy hasn’t often revealed family secrets to me—at least not those of her family. “You knew this at the time?”

 

“I found out. My friend was so despondent that she attempted suicide. Always more dramatic than efficient, was Emily. But still … the damage was done.”

 

“Did you tell your mother about it?”

 

“Don’t be obtuse, dear. I didn’t have to tell her.”

 

“I thought you said she didn’t know about it.”

 

Pithy gives me a sidelong glance. “For God’s sake. On some level, mothers know everything.”

 

“Mama knows,” I murmur.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Something a friend of mine used to say. Mama knows. It implies a sort of maternal extrasensory perception, I think.”

 

Pithy smiles. “A wise friend. But my point was, you can’t give this sexual nonsense too much weight. Did the fact that Martin Luther King diddled all those women change what he did for his people? Or Franklin Roosevelt? General Eisenhower? Not one whit. Men are men, and gods are for storybooks. And if you’ve read your Edith Hamilton or Jane Harrison—or the Old Testament, for that matter—you’ll know that gods acted like men most of the time, or worse.”

 

“I realize Dad’s as human as the next man.”

 

“No, you don’t. And that why this hurts so much.”

 

I try to pull my hand back, but Pithy holds me with surprising strength.

 

“Lord, I wish you could get me a shot of cortisone. My joints are red-hot.”

 

“I’m going to call Melba as soon as I leave and get you taken care of.”

 

She frowns, afraid to get her hopes up. “Melba can’t prescribe, can she?”

 

“I’ll get Drew to order your shot.”

 

The china-blue eyes widen with gratitude. “You’re my angel, dear. You have made my day.”

 

I’m your fix, I reply silently, but I say nothing. Who could deny a dying woman a little comfort?

 

“I need my oxygen now,” she says. “I’m going to buzz Flora.”