Lost Souls Recovered, page 31
John knocked again. Nothing. John removed the door key from his pants pocket and inserted it in the keyhole. “I know this is the key to this door.” He turned it back and forth several times. “It’s not working. He changed the lock. I own this house. He’s in a heap of trouble.”
“Looks like we gotta break in, Pa.”
“You’re right, son.” John removed the revolver from his holster and cocked it, holding it tightly in his right hand. “Step back, son.” John kicked the door with his right foot. It gave a little. The next kick caused the door to fling open. “Quick, go get your rifle.”
The stench was quick to assault their olfactory nerves. Theo opened the living room window to remove the fug, but it wasn’t likely to do any good as the air outside was still and misty. They looked at the dice and playing cards on the gambling table in the living room. Open bottles of whiskey were strewn on the floor. John walked to the kitchen. Theo didn’t follow; he was sidetracked by pictures of naked woman plastered on the living room wall.
Payne was sitting in a chair slumped over the kitchen table. John grabbed the back of his shirt to raise his head. The front of his white pullover shirt was soaked in blood. John could see the entry wound. He was shot in the chest. John shook his head in disgust and slowly lowered Payne’s head back to the table.
John walked out of the kitchen and looked at Theo who was still gawking at the pictures. He wondered whether his fifteen-year-old son had ever seen a naked woman. It was too much to consider, and he quickly purged the thought from his mind. “Son,” John said breaking Theo’s concentration, “Mr. Payne’s dead. Someone shot him. Nothing good can come out of what he was doing. You remember that.”
Theo nodded.
“I’m going to look around some more down here; you see what’s upstairs,” John said.
“Anybody here?” Theo said as he opened one of the bedroom doors. He saw an unmade bed and a whiskey bottle on the nightstand.
He turned the knob to another bedroom door, but the door didn’t open; the door was jammed. He bore into the door with his right shoulder using enough force to cause the door to fling open. He immediately saw a girl under a thin bed sheet. She began to tremble at the sight of Theo’s rifle. As Theo started to say something, he noticed that her eyes darted about like a bird looking for a safe place to land. Her eyes settled on a closet. Theo put his left index finger to his mouth, telling the girl not to make any noise. Theo held the rifle in his right hand as he opened the door with his left hand.
As Theo turned around, a man leaped from behind the chest of drawers and rushed Theo, knocking the rifle to the floor. The man, at least thirty pounds heavier than Theo, had Theo pinned on the floor. Theo was a scrappy lad and had prided himself on his pugilistic skills, but this was a fight where there were no rules. Theo grabbed him tightly around the waist to limit the man’s ability to throw punches. But the man broke Theo’s clutch and punched Theo in the mouth. Theo yelled and covered his face with his hand to deter more damaged to the face. The man began to punch Theo in the ribs.
“Let my son go or I’ll kill you right where you are,” John said, pointing his revolver at the man’s head.
The naked man stood up, revealing a dumpy frame and thick arms that seemed designed to lift heavy objects and that would be useful in a brawl. Theo slid a few feet where he came to a rest against the wall; he felt his puffy upper lip and spit out blood.
“Get over there,” John said still pointing his revolver at the man. “Where’re your clothes?”
The man pointed to a pile of togs near the foot of the bed. John grabbed the man’s pants and shirt, and searched them for any kind of weapon. John threw the clothes at the man and said, “Put them on.” The man stood still with eyes that exuded fear. “Now!” John screamed at the man.
With a slightly calmer voice, John said to the girl, “I guess this is your dress,” as he held up the dress for the her to see.
She nodded.
“Here,” John said tossing it to the girl. The girl looked about Bessie’s age. “How old are you?” John asked.
“Fourteen.”
John looked at the man. “What about you? How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
John was incredulous; the grayish-black hair and deeply wrinkled forehead made him seem older. But John saw no need to quibble with the man about his age. “I own this place. Get the hell out of here.”
The man bounced down the steps with John behind him holding his rifle. As the man reached the front door, John said, “Hold it right there. Mr. Payne is dead. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“Go now. Don’t come this way again,” John said.
John turned around and saw the girl in her tattered dress traipsing down the steps. “Where’s my son?” he asked her. “He’s right there,” she said softly and pointed to the hallway on the second floor.
“I’m coming, Pa.”
“What’s your name?” John asked the girl.
“Hanna.”
Hanna’s vacuous eyes looked like those of a person who hadn’t eaten for days, like something emanating from a barren soul. She was afraid. “Hanna, you’re a pretty girl,” John said. She smiled a smile which seemed too womanly and sly for a young girl. John continued: “You shouldn’t be involved in this mess. You go to church?”
She shook her head.
“There are people who can help you. I want you to find your way to First Baptist. People there will help you. You hear?” John said, hoping she’d seek the church’s help to keep her off the road to perdition.
She nodded.
“You got a place to go?” John asked.
She nodded again.
“Go on,” John said.
John looked at Theo’s puffy upper lip and was glad he got there in time to prevent more harm to Theo. “Let’s get you home and fixed up. Your mama’s going to be upset.”
Theo felt his lip, then tugged on an incisor, wondering whether it would stay in its socket.
John closed the front door. “Son, we’re gonna need to get this house in repair to rent again. We need the money. Your mama’s going to have another baby.”
42 — Spring, 1910
John had risen early, in part to beat the stifling heat that was sure to be ushered in in a few hours, and in part for feeling guilty for not having sown some of his crops two weeks ago. It was early May, and all of Alabama was already experiencing a heat wave.
As he turned over the soil with his hoe, his mind was also turning over: He thought about the need to spend more time with his children. He thought he’d work less hours as a grocer than he did running The Messenger. Tilla helped him with the bookkeeping in between keeping close watch on her growing brood of children. But he was still coming home late from work and rising early to open up for business. He had a few helpers here and there, but they didn’t last long.
Before he knew it, the sun had shot up and reached its peak in the cloudless sky. He had tilled the soil for several hours without respite, but was content that he had settled things in his mind.
Bessie ambled to her father, who was deep in the field working. “Pa, Mama said to give you this glass of water.”
Bessie was a blur to John, his vision clouded by the sweat in his eyes. He removed his wide-brimmed straw hat and retrieved a sweat rag from the back of his overalls and wiped his brow of the sweat that was stinging his eyes. He blinked a few times and his vision was restored, so much so that he could now see the thick haze blanketing his field. Bessie had her father’s high cheekbones and her grandmother Fannie’s freckled skin. “How’s my baby girl?”
She was thirteen years old and had begun to sprout breasts. “Pa, Mama said for you to drink this water.”
He took the tall glass of chilled water and gulped it down like the parched man he was. “Thanks, baby girl. That hit the spot.”
Looking at Bessie, he knew he’d need to spend more time at home to be with his growing brood. Tilla had done a wonderful job with them, teaching them to read, write, and do math. But she couldn’t do the things John could do—pick them up, wrestle with them, and do more in their lives as a father. He knew how it felt to not have a father. An absent father, he thought, was not good. He’d soon sell his store and return to a life of farming. It was going to be hard work, especially as he got older, but at least he’d spend more time with the kids—at least that was the plan. He’d use the money from the sale of the store and spend some on the farm, the family, and invest some.
“Some man’s at the house asking Mama questions; Mama needs you,” Bessie said.
“Let’s go see who it is,” John said as they loped to the house.
Tilla stood in the parlor talking to the census enumerator. John and Bessie walked into the parlor, happy to be out of the searing heat. “Oh, honey, this is …”
“Paschal Leigh,” the man said finishing Tilla’s sentence. “He wants to ask us some questions,” she continued.
“How can I help you?” John said, looking at the thick ream of paper the enumerator was carrying.
“Well, I’m here on behalf of the government. I’m to take the census of residents here in Mount Hope. Just need to ask you folks a few questions.”
“All right, let’s go to the living room.” Mr. Leigh followed John to the living room, going through the kitchen first. “Have a seat. Can we get you anything?”
“No,” Mr. Leigh said while his eyes drifted up to the oversized drawing of John’s mother on the wall.
“Oh, that’s my mother. She was a good woman,” John said as to realize that she was probably dead. “Everything I have in this world is because of her,” he said, “and this woman here,” he added, looking at his wife, who emitted a smilet.
“Where were you born, John?” Mr. Leigh asked.
“Richmond.” Mr. Leigh wrote it down and paused. “That’s Virginia,” John added.
“I know where it is,” Mr. Leigh said smartly.
“How about this lady right here on the wall—where was she born?”
“Don’t know. Wish I did.”
“How about you?” the enumerator said, looking at Tilla.
“I was born right here in Mount Hope. Same for my ma and pa.”
“Tell me the names and ages of your children.”
“Tilla, you better tell him that. I’ll get it mixed up.”
“Let’s see. Theo is fifteen, Bessie is thirteen, Eunice is eleven, Maggie is eight, Pearl is six, Claude is four, and Willie is eight months.”
“Do you own or rent?” the enumerator asked next.
“Own,” John said proudly.
“What’s your occupation?” the enumerator asked.
“Well, I’m a grocer now, soon to be a former grocer. I’m going back to farming full-time. Need to spend more time with my wife and children.”
Tilla arched her thick eyebrows, and the surface of her eyes expanded beyond their usual large size. She had asked John for years to spend more time with the children, and she had finally gotten the answer she had long yearned for.
After having all of his questions answered, Mr. Leigh stood and shook John’s hand and thanked him for participating in the census. “We need more colored folk like you, Mr. Davis,” he said.
Recognizing the slight, John extended his hand to shake hands with Mr. Leigh again. John squeezed Mr. Leigh’s right hand tight and looked him in his small eyes and said, “And we need more white people like you to take the time to talk to colored folk.”
When John released his grip, Mr. Leigh shook his right hand as to bring life back to it. “That’s quite a grip you got there.”
43 — June, 1917
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, but the stygian sky had plunged daylight to darkness. Lightning streaked across the sky as it glowed in a springtime thunderhead, giving an indication that the sky would soon pour out a heavy rain. John, Junior, and Jimmy quickened their step as the first raindrops fell. Jimmy held open the door to the pool hall and he followed John and Junior into the place where they liked to go on Saturdays to play billiards.
Although they were met with a mingled aroma of liquor and smoke, it was the unusual frenetic buzz that seemed out of place, one that resembled Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumble Bee.” The conversations were fast-paced as though the speaker had reason to say something quickly before he’d be interrupted.
It quickly became clear to John, Junior, and Jimmy what the buzz was about. The winds of war had been blowing across the country for some time, and even the little hamlet of Mount Hope had caught the war contagion. The winds had been fueled by talk that Congress would soon declare war against Germany for the war that was raging in Europe.
The usual mix of people—the serious pool players like them, those looking for social interaction, and those looking to get an early start on their way to inebriation, were present. Junior caught sight of an open pool table and tapped Jimmy and John on the arm, beckoning them to join him. John told Jimmy to go first as John was more interested in the buzz.
“Don’t worry, Johnny boy,” Junior said as he stroked his stick as though he were smoothing out the mane on a dog, “you’re next after I beat Jimbo.”
Jimmy fought back. “You going down today,” Jimmy said, sounding plucky. He bent his large frame over the table and broke the balls, befitting of a man who possessed great strength. After the balls settled, three of them had fallen into separate pockets, and the rest had come to a stop on the baize, causing him to look at Junior with a deeply furrowed brow as if to say the game would be over soon.
Several conversations were going on, all about the war, at the same time. As John looked around the tatty poolhall to decide which conversation he’d join, an elderly colored man with half a right ear recognized John, and said, “Ain’t that right, John?”
“Nate, you haven’t been right since I’ve known you,” John said as he walked over to Nate and playfully massaged his upper back.
“John,” a lanky, slender-faced man who was a regular patron of the pool hall said, “what you think about this here war coming?”
Because John hesitated slightly, the void was quickly filled. “They talking about our colored boys going over to Europe to fight … for freedom, they say. We get freedom here first, then we go fight,” said a bushy, gray-haired, seventy-year-old man. “My grandson talking about going overseas to fight. I’m gonna talk to my son about it; my grandson ain’t going nowhere near where they fighting.” Thunder roared from the sky as he pounded the table to emphasize his point.
Someone chuckled and said to the bushy, gray-haired man, “God must be listening to you.”
The slender-faced man decided to give John another chance; he knew that John had a son who was draft-eligible. Looking at John seated next to him, he said to him, “Man, don’t you got a son in the age to be drafted for the war?”
John had mixed feelings about the war. He believed in his country, but his country still didn’t believe in him as a colored man. He knew that things had gotten a little better for colored folks for a few years after the Civil War, but many of those gains were reversed, causing John to write in The Messenger several years ago that “freedom for colored folk was chimerical.” His country would do the right thing, he believed, if it witnessed colored soldiers fighting for it. Since he was too old to fight, he’d fight vicariously through Theo.
“We’re going to make them give us our freedom by fighting in the war,” he had told Tilla a few days ago.
He rehashed what he had told Tilla. “I want my boy to fight for his country. Besides, it’ll do him good; he can stand a little growing up.” He paused briefly, and quickly began to expostulate: “We’re going to make this country give us our rights; we’re equal citizens. When they see colored men fighting for the country, they have no choice but to honor us. You’ll see.”
The bushy, gray-haired man met John’s optimism head on by dismissing it: “Equality may be a right, but I says no power on this planet can make it a fact.”
“Look,” John said, “W. E. B. DuBois is for it. I side with him and other Negro leaders on this issue. I just can’t see how this county can deny us our freedom if we die for it.”
After swilling the last of his whiskey, the bushy, gray-haired man said, “The white man ain’t going to give us no rights, no matter how much we fight for this country.”
Cicero, a pool hall habitué, lifted his large head and suddenly awoke from his besotted state. His right eyelid drooped down to cover the missing eye he lost in a brawl a few years back. He interjected: “Yeah, that’s right. The white man has stepped all over us ever since we landed in this country. We best go back to Africa.”
“What country in Africa?” John asked rhetorically. He took a quick puff on his pipe and continued: “Africa is not your home now; it’s a strange land to us. We’re here now and we got to stay and fight for what belongs to us. That’s what I say.”
About an hour after Junior and Jimmy began their match, Junior was on the verge of winning his first game. He had one ball left and Jimmy had one. Junior realized he needed to clip his ball ever so slightly to get it to go in the side pocket. He looked at Jimmy and nodded. The shot was foozled and he cursed; the cue ball lined up nicely for Jimmy to end the game.
Jimmy shouted over the still-buzzing conversations several feet away, “Hey, John.”
John caught Jimmy’s baritone voice, stood up and looked at Jimmy, who sported a wide grin on a weathered face.
“Our boy Junior’s about to go down three times in a row.”
Jimmy steadied his stick, then struck the cue ball into the eight ball, which went in the corner pocket off a bank just liked he called, and solidifying his status of a complete pool player, the best in Mount Hope.
Junior had had enough. He extended both arms and flicked his hands as if to acknowledge he’d been beaten and had to surrender. He walked over to John’s table and joined the still-buzzing conversation about the war. Jimmy took on another player.
Junior had shaken off his defeat by Jimmy and thrust himself into the debate. Never shy of obtruding his opinions on others, he said, “No need for us to go fight in that war. Otis Jefferson fought in that war over there in Cuba or Puerto Rico; I know it was one of them places. Thousands of colored men like Otis fought for this country; that don’t mean squat to the white man. And y’all know I’m telling it like it is.”
