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Authors: Michael Bishop
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to judge. Many had resented the spring’s unruly influx of visitors and the inconvenience of the highway patrol roadblocks and spot identity checks. Still, most did not hold my former wife accountable for these problems, recognizing that she, too, was a victim of the publicity mill generating the crowds and the clumsy security measures finally obviated by the wall. Now the residents of Beulah Fork wondered about the relationship between RuthClaire and Adam. This preoccupation, depending on their ultimate view of the matter, dictated the way they spoke about and dealt with their unorthodox neighbor. Or would have, I’m sure, if RuthClaire had come into town more often.
One sweltering July day, for instance, I went into the Greyhound Depot Laundry to reclaim the tablecloths I had left to be dry-cleaned. Ben Sadler, a courtly man nearly six and a half feet tall, stooped toward me over his garment-strewn counter and in the blast-furnace heat of that tiny establishment trapped me in a perplexing conversation about the present occupants of Paradise Farm. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his ash-blond temples, and gathered in his eyebrows as if they were thin, ragged sponges not quite thirsty enough to handle the unending flow.
“Listen, Paul, what kind of, uh, creature is this Adam fella, anyway?”
I summarized all the most likely, and all the most asinine, speculations. I used the terms Australopithecus zarakalensis, Homo zarakalensis , and Homo habilis . I used the words ape-man, hominid, primate , and dwarf . I confessed that not even the so-called experts agreed on the genus or species to which Adam belonged.
“Do they say he’s human?” Ben wanted to know.
“Some do. That’s what Homo means, although lots of people seem to think it means something else. Anyway, RuthClaire thinks he’s human, Ben.”
“And he’s black, isn’t he? I mean, I’ve read where the whole human race—even the Gabor sisters and the Osmond family—I’ve read where we’re all descended from tiny black people. Originally, that is.”
“He’s as black as Hershey’s syrup,” I conceded.
“Do you think we’re descended from Adam, Paul? RuthClaire’s Adam, I mean.”
“Not Adam personally. Prehistoric hominids like him, maybe. Adam’s a kind of hominid coelacanth.” I explained that a coelacanth was an ancient fish known only in fossil form and presumed extinct until a specimen was taken from waters off South Africa in 1938. That particular fish had been five feet long. Adam, on the other hand, was about six inches shy of five feet. Therefore, I did not think it absolutely impossible for a retiring, intelligent creature of Adam’s general dimensions to elude the scrutiny of Homo sapiens sapiens for the past few thousand years of recorded human history. Of course, I also believed in the Sasquatch and the yeti. . . .
“That’s a funny idea, Paul—all of us comin’ from creatures two thirds our size and black as Hershey’s syrup.”
“Don’t run for office on it.”
Ben wiped his brow with a glistening forearm. “How does RuthClaire, uh, look upon Adam?” He feared that he had violated propriety. “I mean, does she see him as a brother? Some folks say she treats him like a house nigger from plantation days—which I can’t believe of her, not under no circumstances—and others say he’s more like a two-legged poodle gettin’ the favorite-pet treatment from its lady. I ask because I’m not sure how I’d greet the little fella if he was to walk in here tomorrow.”
“I think she treats him like a houseguest, Ben.” (I hope that’s how she treats him, I thought. The ubiquitous spokesman for the Greater Christian Constituency of America, Inc., had planted a nefarious doubt in my mind.)
Ben Sadler grunted conditional agreement, and I toted my clean tablecloths back across the street to the restaurant.
That evening, a Saturday, the West Bank was packed. Molly Kingsbury was hostessing, Livia George and
One sweltering July day, for instance, I went into the Greyhound Depot Laundry to reclaim the tablecloths I had left to be dry-cleaned. Ben Sadler, a courtly man nearly six and a half feet tall, stooped toward me over his garment-strewn counter and in the blast-furnace heat of that tiny establishment trapped me in a perplexing conversation about the present occupants of Paradise Farm. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his ash-blond temples, and gathered in his eyebrows as if they were thin, ragged sponges not quite thirsty enough to handle the unending flow.
“Listen, Paul, what kind of, uh, creature is this Adam fella, anyway?”
I summarized all the most likely, and all the most asinine, speculations. I used the terms Australopithecus zarakalensis, Homo zarakalensis , and Homo habilis . I used the words ape-man, hominid, primate , and dwarf . I confessed that not even the so-called experts agreed on the genus or species to which Adam belonged.
“Do they say he’s human?” Ben wanted to know.
“Some do. That’s what Homo means, although lots of people seem to think it means something else. Anyway, RuthClaire thinks he’s human, Ben.”
“And he’s black, isn’t he? I mean, I’ve read where the whole human race—even the Gabor sisters and the Osmond family—I’ve read where we’re all descended from tiny black people. Originally, that is.”
“He’s as black as Hershey’s syrup,” I conceded.
“Do you think we’re descended from Adam, Paul? RuthClaire’s Adam, I mean.”
“Not Adam personally. Prehistoric hominids like him, maybe. Adam’s a kind of hominid coelacanth.” I explained that a coelacanth was an ancient fish known only in fossil form and presumed extinct until a specimen was taken from waters off South Africa in 1938. That particular fish had been five feet long. Adam, on the other hand, was about six inches shy of five feet. Therefore, I did not think it absolutely impossible for a retiring, intelligent creature of Adam’s general dimensions to elude the scrutiny of Homo sapiens sapiens for the past few thousand years of recorded human history. Of course, I also believed in the Sasquatch and the yeti. . . .
“That’s a funny idea, Paul—all of us comin’ from creatures two thirds our size and black as Hershey’s syrup.”
“Don’t run for office on it.”
Ben wiped his brow with a glistening forearm. “How does RuthClaire, uh, look upon Adam?” He feared that he had violated propriety. “I mean, does she see him as a brother? Some folks say she treats him like a house nigger from plantation days—which I can’t believe of her, not under no circumstances—and others say he’s more like a two-legged poodle gettin’ the favorite-pet treatment from its lady. I ask because I’m not sure how I’d greet the little fella if he was to walk in here tomorrow.”
“I think she treats him like a houseguest, Ben.” (I hope that’s how she treats him, I thought. The ubiquitous spokesman for the Greater Christian Constituency of America, Inc., had planted a nefarious doubt in my mind.)
Ben Sadler grunted conditional agreement, and I toted my clean tablecloths back across the street to the restaurant.
That evening, a Saturday, the West Bank was packed. Molly Kingsbury was hostessing, Livia George and
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