get it, and I—”
Hawk glared at her. Roosevelt! thought Jerry. He had never heard anyone but Mattie call Hawk by any part of his Christian name. Theodore Roosevelt Jefferson, one of a generation of children named for the Rough Rider, born shortly after the charge up San Juan Hill. “Named for two presidents,” Hawk always said. “And my mother didn’t even know about one of them. That was because I was the seventh son, born on the seventh day, I ain’t gonna say what month, but you can figure that out for yourself. I guess that’s why I’m blessed with second sight.” Which was a lot of shit, even discounting the second sight, because Hawk was no more likely to be a seventh son than Jerry was himself, and Jerry had only a sister. Plus he was born in December, “just around Christmastime, the first real snowfall my mama ever seed,” he liked to recollect sometimes to other interviewers when it suited his purpose.
“Have you known Hawk long?”
“Oh my, yes,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Oh,” said Jerry, waiting to see if anything else would be forthcoming. “Well, Hawk and I go back a ways ourselves. But I’ve been listening to his music all my life—well, for twenty years anyway—”
“Isn’t that nice?”
Hawk glared some more. He didn’t like people talking about him in his presence, or behind his back either for that matter. Well, fuck Hawk, if he wouldn’t say anything for himself. “You need anything?”
“Sherry,” said Hawk.
Jerry had a momentary twinge—was this a dying man’s last request?—but he resolved to remain firm. “Come on, Hawk, you know I can’t do that. These people’d bust me for sure if I started bringing in liquor. Since when have you started drinking sherry, anyway?”
Hawk looked at him disgustedly. “Sherry,” he repeated with greater emphasis this time.
Jerry was perplexed. He didn’t want to push the issue. “He want ice cream,” said the woman in her cracking voice. “Sherry ice cream.”
“Oh sure,” Jerry said with some relief. “Cherry ice cream.”
Hawk nodded.
When he came back, Hawk was strumming a little more audibly, bent grimly over the guitar while the woman hummed patiently along to his laborious accompaniment in a cracked and tuneless voice. Hawk gobbled the ice cream down. “I needs the sherry for my throat,” he explained between spoonfuls. It reminded Jerry of their earliest meetings, all the unnecessary misunderstandings (were they willful on Hawk’s part, or his own?) in their long and complex association.
“Oh sure,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world—which it was. “No problem.”
Everyone else in the ward was staring at them. A nurse started over but then thought better of it. She had probably approached Hawk once already. Hawk licked his lips and picked up the guitar again. This time the chord resounded throughout the room. His fingers still stumbled over the strings and he hit a lot of wrong notes, but he and the woman began to sing “Jesus Wears the Starry Crown,” softly at first, then with increasing volume, as Hawk’s guttural voice swelled from a whisper and took on the conviction of the song. Jerry was both moved and embarrassed. He wished, as he had so many times in his life, that he could retreat to the status of unobserved observer or at the very least surround them with a soundproof glass booth. It was touching, but the other patients were not so much moved as startled. One sat up straight and started to reach for the nurse’s buzzer. Another turned over and groaned.
“Will you stop that caterwauling?” said the drawn, bald-headed white man in the bed beside Hawk’s. Hawk just glared at him, looking through him, not even so much as acknowledging his presence. The man pulled the cord for the nurse, yanking at it angrily until he pulled it free from the wall. The old woman’s wavering cries formed an antiphonal wail behind Hawk’s gruff lead.
“
Jesus, Jee-zus,
Hawk glared at her. Roosevelt! thought Jerry. He had never heard anyone but Mattie call Hawk by any part of his Christian name. Theodore Roosevelt Jefferson, one of a generation of children named for the Rough Rider, born shortly after the charge up San Juan Hill. “Named for two presidents,” Hawk always said. “And my mother didn’t even know about one of them. That was because I was the seventh son, born on the seventh day, I ain’t gonna say what month, but you can figure that out for yourself. I guess that’s why I’m blessed with second sight.” Which was a lot of shit, even discounting the second sight, because Hawk was no more likely to be a seventh son than Jerry was himself, and Jerry had only a sister. Plus he was born in December, “just around Christmastime, the first real snowfall my mama ever seed,” he liked to recollect sometimes to other interviewers when it suited his purpose.
“Have you known Hawk long?”
“Oh my, yes,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Oh,” said Jerry, waiting to see if anything else would be forthcoming. “Well, Hawk and I go back a ways ourselves. But I’ve been listening to his music all my life—well, for twenty years anyway—”
“Isn’t that nice?”
Hawk glared some more. He didn’t like people talking about him in his presence, or behind his back either for that matter. Well, fuck Hawk, if he wouldn’t say anything for himself. “You need anything?”
“Sherry,” said Hawk.
Jerry had a momentary twinge—was this a dying man’s last request?—but he resolved to remain firm. “Come on, Hawk, you know I can’t do that. These people’d bust me for sure if I started bringing in liquor. Since when have you started drinking sherry, anyway?”
Hawk looked at him disgustedly. “Sherry,” he repeated with greater emphasis this time.
Jerry was perplexed. He didn’t want to push the issue. “He want ice cream,” said the woman in her cracking voice. “Sherry ice cream.”
“Oh sure,” Jerry said with some relief. “Cherry ice cream.”
Hawk nodded.
When he came back, Hawk was strumming a little more audibly, bent grimly over the guitar while the woman hummed patiently along to his laborious accompaniment in a cracked and tuneless voice. Hawk gobbled the ice cream down. “I needs the sherry for my throat,” he explained between spoonfuls. It reminded Jerry of their earliest meetings, all the unnecessary misunderstandings (were they willful on Hawk’s part, or his own?) in their long and complex association.
“Oh sure,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world—which it was. “No problem.”
Everyone else in the ward was staring at them. A nurse started over but then thought better of it. She had probably approached Hawk once already. Hawk licked his lips and picked up the guitar again. This time the chord resounded throughout the room. His fingers still stumbled over the strings and he hit a lot of wrong notes, but he and the woman began to sing “Jesus Wears the Starry Crown,” softly at first, then with increasing volume, as Hawk’s guttural voice swelled from a whisper and took on the conviction of the song. Jerry was both moved and embarrassed. He wished, as he had so many times in his life, that he could retreat to the status of unobserved observer or at the very least surround them with a soundproof glass booth. It was touching, but the other patients were not so much moved as startled. One sat up straight and started to reach for the nurse’s buzzer. Another turned over and groaned.
“Will you stop that caterwauling?” said the drawn, bald-headed white man in the bed beside Hawk’s. Hawk just glared at him, looking through him, not even so much as acknowledging his presence. The man pulled the cord for the nurse, yanking at it angrily until he pulled it free from the wall. The old woman’s wavering cries formed an antiphonal wail behind Hawk’s gruff lead.
“
Jesus, Jee-zus,
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