I was twenty-nine when, in 1884, I married a schoolteacher, Jane Susan Dyal. Jane was a lady even by my mother’s standards, well-educated and softspoken and pleasant in appearance, though no longer young. If not a creature of passion like my lost Charlie, she was a kind, sensible person, glad of my attentions and not offended by coarse, manly needs, having missed a maiden lady’s fate by a cunt whisker.
Goodwife Jane (I called her Mandy) would soon present me with a lovely baby girl. We named her Carrie. Two years later came a boy, named Edward Elijah for good luck after the rich Old Squire at Clouds Creek. As if her own little smellers weren’t enough, Mandy worried about Sonborn, as I referred to Charlie’s child on those rare occasions when I felt obliged to acknowledge his existence. Since I had refused to ride eight miles to Lake City simply to name him, he remained “Son Born” in the county register and legally, perhaps, did not exist at all; in truth I had not laid eyes on him since the bloody hour of his birth eight years before. I knew, of course, that his mother’s parents had taken him, and I also knew because Mandy told me that those folks were old and pretty well worn out. Lately Charlie’s mother had been poorly, Mandy added, and Old Man Curry had trouble enough tending his wife and chickens without taking care of a young grandson, too.
My wife meant well but Sonborn was not her business; I notified her she was not to speak of him again. But in the safety of the dark, on our night pillow, she would murmur in my ear, stroking my head and whispering how wonderful it might be, not only for the little boy but for his father. From Minnie she knew something of our family past, and she dared to hint that turning my back on my firstborn might have reopened an old wound inflicted by those long dark years of boyhood. I shouted at her to bluff her back before she said what she said next, that my refusal to acknowledge Charlie’s child could only breed guilt and regret. Naturally I became furious, since what she said was true.
When I stopped shouting and fell quiet, Mandy continued, with that gentle resolve that I would come to dread: if the first Mrs. Watson had been the angel I extolled so often to the second Mrs. Watson-I sensed Mandy’s fond ironic smile even in the dark-then she surely watched over her loved ones from on high and was grieving that her innocent child had been abandoned. (That idea gave me a start, and not because of Sonborn: if Charlie and the Lord were in cahoots on high, they might have witnessed all my dirty doings with Miss SueBelle Parkins.)
And so on a Sunday I rode over to the house of Mr. Curry Collins, who was whittling a wood toy out on his stoop. As I entered the yard, Ring-Eye’s ancient roan, half warhorse and half mule, gave me a walleyed look and stamped and snorted, moving sideways and in circles.
“Been a bear around,” Old Man Curry advised me-not much of a greeting. I informed him I had come there for my son, having heard that Mrs. Collins was feeling poorly: no doubt a growing boy could be a burden, and anyway, it was high time he came home.
“Home?” Mr. Collins stood up slowly but did not come down the steps, and he never invited me into his house. “This is the only home he’s ever had.”
I never even swung down off my horse, which chose this moment to drop a steaming load right in the dooryard. “No sir,” said I. “This is not his home and it’s not up to him. You tell him to pack up and come out here quick unless you want me to go in there and fetch him.” At these words, Charlie’s brother Lee came out and looked me over with dislike, hands in hip pockets, then returned inside without a word.
They believed all the bad stories, that was plain. Mr. Curry was concerned for his grandson and never tried to hide it. “We tended little Elton these eight years while you forgot about him. That entitles us to some say in the matter, Edgar.”
“Nosir, it does not,” I said. “You are entitled to my thanks for your hospitality to your own grandson and you have it. Now let’s get a move on.”
Already I was talking past him to the small boy in the doorway, who held my eye with a cool and steady gaze. You weedy little shit, I thought, you’re not much to show for the unholy joy that went into your creation. In a moment, he ran back inside, but the brief glimpse shook me, for he had his young mama’s full black eyes and pale rose-pointed skin. With one look I knew that this child would stir up squalls of that hard grief which I so dearly hoped were at last behind me.
“I am his daddy, after all,” I added gruffly.
“First time you acted like it. You never even took the time to go register his name so we named him Elton.”
“His name is Robert. After his great-uncle, Colonel Robert B. Watson of Clouds Creek, South Carolina.”
A wail rose from the ill woman within. “Elton!” she cried. The boy was already through the door, both arms wrapped around a little bindle.
“Whatever happened to you, Edgar?” Curry Collins said, very sharp and cold. “You were a pretty nice young feller when you first come around these parts, as I recall.”
“Say thank you and good-bye,” I told the boy.
Robert Briggs Watson stuck his hand out, saying, “Good-bye, Grandpa,” but winced and shifted in discomfort, I noticed, when the old man leaned down to peck him on the head-no doubt old breath. “Good-bye, Elton,” Collins called after him in muffled voice as the boy ran to my horse. He looked defeated but he kept his dignity and did not call again.
I swung the child up behind me. “Your name is Robert now,” I notified him. “You ready, Robert?” “Yessir,” he said. As we rode away, Mr. Collins lifted a slow hand which his grandson never saw. The boy had his arms around me, face pressed hard, and I guided his small hands to my belt loops, feeling a coolness where his tears wet my shirt. “I knowed you’d come,” came his small muffled voice. And in a moment, he said, “Papa? I been waiting and waiting.” Not knowing how to answer that, I said, “Don’t set so far back on his withers, boy. Makes the old fool buck.”
Even before we arrived home, I knew this boy would bring his mother’s ghost into our house-just what I feared most. I glared at Mandy when she came running out with a big smile. “You wanted him so bad so you take care of him.” I swung him off and galloped away down the woods roads, headed for nowhere, riding my heart into the ground. In the next days I drank, worse than before. Morning after morning, I woke up sick to death on some sawdust floor or in some shed or ditch, and finally in a stinking Suwannee jail, bruised, bilious, broke, and mean down to the bone.