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“The difference between the black and white races?” his daddy used to say. “There ain’t none. It’s a state of mind, not a matter of pigmentation. Let rich people treat you like a nigra, you are one.”
Quince believed what his daddy said. Folks look at you the wrong way, their nostrils thin and white around the rims like the air has gone bad, their eyes not seeing you when you look back at them, you educate them regarding the potential of a man who’s been treated with a lack of respect. Back in the 1960s, Quince’s uncle had been a city marshal in a little town nobody would take time to wipe his ass on. He pulled over a homegrown black boy and two white boys from up north for driving five miles above the speed limit. When their bodies were dug out of an earthen dam, everyone thought they had died because they were registering black voters. Maybe part of that was true, but it wasn’t the real cause. The driver, this smart-ass Jewish college boy, had called Quince’s uncle “man.” Not “sir,” not “constable,” not even “mister.” Just “man.”
The legacy of violence in Quince’s family was as natural in their daily lives as the bitterness and sense of failure that greeted them with each sunrise. The Whitleys nursed their resentments and carried their reputation for lethality with them, using it as a silent weapon against their enemies, in the same way the dried sweat on their skin assailed the sensibilities of others and dared them to show any objection to it.
But living vicariously through the stories of lynchings and castrations Quince had heard as a child did nothing to relieve him of his anger. He had put in five years with the Wellstones, after an adult lifetime of working in a pesticide plant and hauling hogs to Chicago and breathing granary dust in a place called Texline on the New Mexico border. He had not only found a comfortable job and home, he had come to think of himself as an extension of the Wellstone estate. He always used the term “Wellstone estate” when he was asked where he worked. It rang with a sound and cadence like gold coin bouncing off a plate.
When Leslie Wellstone had brought Jamie Sue Stapleton home as his wife, Quince felt that starshine had been dusted on his own shoulders. Leslie Wellstone might have been educated and rich, and Leslie Wellstone might have fought in foreign wars over issues Quince knew nothing about, but Quince understood the world of country music and hardscrabble farms and picking cotton until the tips of his fingers bled. You didn’t learn those kinds of things at a snooty eastern university. Jamie Sue recognized one of her own as soon as she laid eyes on him, Quince told himself. In his own mind, he had become Jamie Sue’s blue-collar knight errant and personal adviser. Yes sir, Quince Whitley, a sharecropper’s son, was the bodyguard and friend in need of the most beautiful woman who had ever walked out on the Opry stage. He wondered what his old friends working at the roach-paste factory would have to say about that.
Now it was all blown to hell. He had tried to sell out the Wellstones to the hick with the big dick from Bumfuck, Texas, and had gotten his ass kicked in the process. Then he’d gone back on the job at the Wellstone compound, cutting grass, pretending to run off tree huggers who, if truth be known, didn’t exist, and driving Jamie Sue to the bar on Swan Lake so she could get enough brew in her to forget whom she had married.
Here he was on Thursday afternoon, driving the lawn mower across eighteen acres of yard the Wellstones and their friends played croquet and badminton on, the air hot and dry in ways it shouldn’t have been, columns of smoke rising from the timber on
a distant mountain. The heat made him think of Mississippi and the burnt-out end of summer days when the sky was bitten with dust blowing out of the fields. Why did he feel that everything in his life was ending, that his life had been a long elliptical path that would take him back to the same world he had tried to flee?
The weather itself seemed to plot against him. He had come to the Big Sky for the big score, not for hot days that smelled of fires and reminded him of Mississippi, not to cut people’s grass, either, with clouds of grasshoppers lifting from the yellowed edges of the yard. He could feel a balloon of anger rising in his chest, one that actually pushed bile into his mouth and caused him to spit. Back home, people learned quick you didn’t dump on a Whitley. Your anger was a friend, a flag under which you conducted yourself and which made other people cross the street when they saw you coming. But now he had no one to vent his anger upon, and it was consuming him as though he had swallowed a chemical agent.
Just this morning Jamie Sue had taken off for the day, the Hispanic woman carrying her baby for her, the two of them walking past Quince like he wasn’t there. Quince wondered if she was still pumping it with that fat shit from New Orleans or if she was slipping off to meet this convict on the run, Jimmy Dale Greenwood. Maybe that was what galled him worst, he thought. Jamie Sue had an eye for anything in pants except Quince Whitley, the one person who had always admired and treated her with respect. That’s what he got for his loyalty, the switch of the hips while she passed him on the flagstones, her lower body silhouetted through her dress against the early sun, her nose lifted in the breeze, just like that bitch at the gas pump.
The tractor-mower throbbed between Quince’s thighs, calling up thoughts about other women in his life, some of them white, some black, but all of them aware you didn’t dump on a Whitley, by God.
His memories of the way he had dealt with other challenges to his pride earlier in life had almost set him free from his present misery when a rock exploded from the mower blade and smacked like a rifle shot against the picture-glass window in Leslie Wellstone’s study.
Leslie stepped out on the porch and motioned for Quince to cut the engine.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Wellstone,” Quince said.
“It might be a good idea to rake the lawn before you run the mower past the windows,” Leslie said.
“I did that, Mr. Wellstone,” Quince lied. “But I’ll do it again.”
“Maybe use a better rake, one with finer tines.”
Quince had gotten the point. Why was Wellstone pushing it? Because he liked rubbing his shit in Quince’s hair, Quince told himself.
“Maria went into Missoula with Ms. Wellstone. I need you to round up the garbage and tidy up,” Wellstone said.
“Sir?”
“The plastic bags are in the pantry. Empty all the wastebaskets in leaf bags, put plastic ties on them, and put fresh white bags inside the baskets. Make sure you get all the bathrooms. Take some Ajax and Windex and rags and clean the counters and mirrors and basins. Can you handle that?”
Quince could hear the wind blowing through the shrubbery. A grasshopper struck his eye and caused it to tear.
“Are you listening?” Leslie asked.
“That ain’t exactly what I usually do.”
“Then perhaps it’s time to expand your horizons.” Leslie smiled, showing his teeth.
“You got it, Mr. Wellstone,” Quince replied, restarting the engine. “Just soon as I make this last cut here.” Then he added under his breath, “Yassuh, boss, I’s sure on it.”
“What was that?”
“Said I’ll be right in there, Mr. Wellstone,” Quince replied above the roar of the engine, wheeling the mower away so Leslie could not see his expression.
Ten minutes later, Quince entered the back of the house through the attached garage and was told by the chef to remove his boots and to put plastic covers, like those a surgeon would wear, over his sock feet. Then he was given a huge black leaf bag and a handful of smaller white plastic bags threaded with red drawstrings and was told to begin his trash pickup under the kitchen sink, where a pile of pungent shrimp husks and spoiled potato salad waited for him.
He dragged his leaf bag throughout the mansion, filling it with all the residue and discarded material that filtered from farms and factories and stock brokerages throughout the nation into the daily lives of the Wellstones, feeding them, entertaining them, keeping them comfortable and satiated, and making them richer by the minute.
