Read Online A Short History of a Small Place by T. R. Pearson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: T. R. Pearson
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them just lingering along the fence and seeing what they could of luxury and grandeur through the Pettigrews’ milky window sheers.
Then Miss Myra Angelique screamed, Daddy said, and the people on the sidewalk out front of the Pettigrew house gaped at each other and the people on nearby avenues and porches caught up their breath and looked out into the darkness. And then Miss Pettigrew screamed again. Daddy said it was not the sort of wild and frantic screeching you’d expect from a woman but more along the lines of a high-pitched moan. It was wordless, he said, and brief and despairing. Momma said folks dashed for the boulevard from all over Neely since even those who hadn’t heard the outcry firsthand had already heard about it, and she imagined there were two or three dozen in attendance along the fence when Miss Pettigrew said, “I will not!” in a voice that was still high-pitched and somewhat mournful but a little more wild and a little more frantic. Daddy said the mayor tried to calm her down, or anyway that’s what people supposed since they could hear the drone of the mayor’s voice but could not exactly decipher any sense from it. Then Miss Pettigrew said, “NO!” and she was howling, Daddy said, and he said the mayor’s voice came in again right behind hers, not soothing now but what Daddy called plaintive and more than a little frantic itself. But the mayor left off, Daddy said, when Miss Pettigrew broke in and wailed at him, “NO NO NO NO NO!” in a most frightful and wholly uncontained way.
That’s when Mr. Nance snuck away, Momma said, or at least that’s when folks first noticed him coming out from around the backside of the house and making for his car. Momma said he didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t even look anybody in the face, but just slipped into the frontseat and drove off. She said he was nearly four blocks from the house before he finally cut the headlights on. And then the Pettigrews’ front door flew open, Daddy said, and the mayor came backing out onto the porch with his forearms drawn up in front of his face and Miss Myra Angelique flailing and slapping at him with her open hands and driving him across the planking and onto the concrete steps. She was sobbing, Daddy said, and making noises like words but not words themselves, and he said that Mr. Britches came through the doorway behind them, turned his gums pinkside out, hooted once, and then bolted across the porch on his knuckles, cleared the bannister, and slipped off into the night.
Then Miss Myra Angelique went back inside, shut the door, and latched it behind her, and Daddy said the mayor stood on the walkway with his hands in his pockets and looked up at the stars and at a little piece of moon overhead. Daddy didn’t imagine the mayor knew he’d collected a regular gallery against the fence, but he said Wallace Amory didn’t even twitch when somebody called out from the crowd and said, “Mayor, your monkey’s done run off.”
The mayor just looked at the moon and the stars and he rattled a set of keys in his pocket and said, “Oh?”
Momma said that was the beginning of the end. Daddy said that was the end. And I suppose Daddy was onto it this time since nothing much else came along to advance the drama any. Miss Pettigrew, of course, did not marry Mr. Nance and, to the best of Momma’s knowledge, did not ever speak of him again—not even in derision. The mayor, of course, did not run for Congress and, to the best of Daddy’s knowledge, did not ever again speak of having intended to run—not even to folks wearing his likeness on lapel buttons. And Mr. Britches, of course, did not know enough about chickens to stay out of a henhouse and the chickens did not care to know enough about a sportcoated monkey to tolerate the visit agreeably, so he was thrilled to be rescued and returned home.
Momma said the mayor had been guilty of indelicacy with Miss Pettigrew’s emotions. Daddy said he had simply tried to farm
Then Miss Myra Angelique screamed, Daddy said, and the people on the sidewalk out front of the Pettigrew house gaped at each other and the people on nearby avenues and porches caught up their breath and looked out into the darkness. And then Miss Pettigrew screamed again. Daddy said it was not the sort of wild and frantic screeching you’d expect from a woman but more along the lines of a high-pitched moan. It was wordless, he said, and brief and despairing. Momma said folks dashed for the boulevard from all over Neely since even those who hadn’t heard the outcry firsthand had already heard about it, and she imagined there were two or three dozen in attendance along the fence when Miss Pettigrew said, “I will not!” in a voice that was still high-pitched and somewhat mournful but a little more wild and a little more frantic. Daddy said the mayor tried to calm her down, or anyway that’s what people supposed since they could hear the drone of the mayor’s voice but could not exactly decipher any sense from it. Then Miss Pettigrew said, “NO!” and she was howling, Daddy said, and he said the mayor’s voice came in again right behind hers, not soothing now but what Daddy called plaintive and more than a little frantic itself. But the mayor left off, Daddy said, when Miss Pettigrew broke in and wailed at him, “NO NO NO NO NO!” in a most frightful and wholly uncontained way.
That’s when Mr. Nance snuck away, Momma said, or at least that’s when folks first noticed him coming out from around the backside of the house and making for his car. Momma said he didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t even look anybody in the face, but just slipped into the frontseat and drove off. She said he was nearly four blocks from the house before he finally cut the headlights on. And then the Pettigrews’ front door flew open, Daddy said, and the mayor came backing out onto the porch with his forearms drawn up in front of his face and Miss Myra Angelique flailing and slapping at him with her open hands and driving him across the planking and onto the concrete steps. She was sobbing, Daddy said, and making noises like words but not words themselves, and he said that Mr. Britches came through the doorway behind them, turned his gums pinkside out, hooted once, and then bolted across the porch on his knuckles, cleared the bannister, and slipped off into the night.
Then Miss Myra Angelique went back inside, shut the door, and latched it behind her, and Daddy said the mayor stood on the walkway with his hands in his pockets and looked up at the stars and at a little piece of moon overhead. Daddy didn’t imagine the mayor knew he’d collected a regular gallery against the fence, but he said Wallace Amory didn’t even twitch when somebody called out from the crowd and said, “Mayor, your monkey’s done run off.”
The mayor just looked at the moon and the stars and he rattled a set of keys in his pocket and said, “Oh?”
Momma said that was the beginning of the end. Daddy said that was the end. And I suppose Daddy was onto it this time since nothing much else came along to advance the drama any. Miss Pettigrew, of course, did not marry Mr. Nance and, to the best of Momma’s knowledge, did not ever speak of him again—not even in derision. The mayor, of course, did not run for Congress and, to the best of Daddy’s knowledge, did not ever again speak of having intended to run—not even to folks wearing his likeness on lapel buttons. And Mr. Britches, of course, did not know enough about chickens to stay out of a henhouse and the chickens did not care to know enough about a sportcoated monkey to tolerate the visit agreeably, so he was thrilled to be rescued and returned home.
Momma said the mayor had been guilty of indelicacy with Miss Pettigrew’s emotions. Daddy said he had simply tried to farm
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