Strange Fruit, page 1
Praise for Strange Fruit,
the #1 New York Times Bestseller
“The South can hardly be said to recognize itself without this book.”
—Alice Walker
“An absorbing novel, of high literary merit, terrific and tender.”
—The Boston Globe
“Strange Fruit is so wide in its human understanding … [its] tragedy becomes the tragedy of anyone who lives in a world in which minorities suffer; when it ends in a lynching, we are as sorry and frightened for the lynchers as for the victim. Indeed, we are terrified for ourselves by the realization that this is what we have made of our human possibility.”
—The Nation
“One of the nation’s most distinguished writers.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“The real power of Smith’s novel lies in her depiction of the grotesque manner in which racism deforms its perpetrators.”
—The Daily Beast
STRANGE FRUIT
Lillian Smith
To Paula
ONE
She stood at the gate, waiting; behind her the swamp, in front of her Colored Town, beyond it, all Maxwell. Tall and slim and white in the dusk, the girl stood there, hands on the picket gate.
“That’s Nonnie Anderson,” they would tell you, “that’s one of the Anderson niggers. Been to college. Yeah! Whole family been to college! All right niggers though, even if they have. Had a good mother who raised her children to work hard and know their place. Anderson niggers all right. Good as we have in the county, I reckon.”
“Stuck up like Almighty, Nonnie Anderson,” some colored folks said, “holding her head so highty-tighty, not like Bess. Bess common as dirt, friendly with folks.”
“You forgot Em Anderson’s ways?” others said. “Spittin image of her pappy in her ways. Shut-mouth jes like him, dat all. Pity ain mo like her! Too many folks lettin off their moufs bout things they don know nothin about, pokin their noses in—”
“Biggety thing,” white women said, “I wouldn’t have her in my house with all her college airs.” But most said it enviously, for women on College Street and the side streets knew that Mrs. Brown’s servant Nonnie was the best servant in Maxwell unless it was her sister Bess. And so good to little imbecile Boysie. Everybody knew how good she was to the little fellow.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Mrs. Brown would say, “how I ever did without her! She’s so good to the baby, Frankl He cries so in this hot weather and she never gets cross with him. You can tell a good nurse by her hands. Way she touches a baby. No matter how bad the poor little fellow is, Nonnie’s never rough with him. Always so easy, picking him up. Wish we could pay her a little more. I’m afraid she’ll leave us.”
“Nonnie’s a good nigger, all right,” Frank would answer, “good as we’ll find, I reckon. You pay her enough, three dollars plenty! Already more than anybody else on College Street. You’ll have the women on you if you start raising wages.”
“Her shy as a little critter,” Tillie Anderson used to say, long ago. “Won’t talk to nobody. Who got yo tongue, Nonnie? Come out from behind my skirt, can’t spen yo life apeekin from behind yo Ma! You know dat, honey!”
And white boys whistled softly when she walked down the street, and said low words and rubbed the back of their hands across their mouths, for Nonnie Anderson was something to look at twice, with her soft black hair blowing off her face, and black eyes set in a face that God knows by right should have belonged to a white girl. And old Cap’n Rushton, sitting out in front of Brown’s Hardware Store as he liked to do when in from the turpentine farm, would rub his thick red hand over his chin slowly as he watched her wheel drooling, lop-headed Boysie Brown in to see his papa, sit there watching the girl, rubbing his hand over his chin, watching her, until she had gone back across the railroad and turned down College Street.
Nonnie pushed her hair off her face as she looked across White Town. Strange … being pregnant could make you feel like this. So sure. After all the years, sure. Bess wouldn’t see it. You hated to try to explain. Bess would feel disgraced. Ruined. The Andersons ruined, Bess would say. You live in a dream world, she’d say. Sometimes I almost think you’re crazy, Non! she would say. I almost wish you were crazy, she’d say in her bitterness.
Sharp words rattling like palmettos.
Nonnie sighed.
Across the town came the singing. A white singing to Jesus. An August singing of lost souls. A God-moaning.
August is the time folks give up their sins. August is a time of trouble.
Whiter than snow … yes whiter than snow … oh wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.
Her thoughts swung with the Gospel tune.
Around the curve from Miss Ada’s, where the trees open up, clearing the path, she could see him coming. A drag of left foot, a lift of shoulder, half limp, half swagger. Limp, swagger …
She would tell him, now that she felt certain. Though she had known since that night at the river. Somehow she had known since then.
He would say, “You all right?” and look at her as if he saw her for the first time. And the sound of it would hurt in her throat. Funny, how you don’t get used to things.
He had said it first when he picked her out of the sandspurs, long ago; so long, it seemed now as if she must have dreamed it. She had fallen when Nat pulled up her dress, pulled at her underpants. Nat’s freckled hand had reached out for her and she had jerked away from him, but more from the look on his sallow face, new to six-year-old eyes. His words already old. Words scrawled on circus posters, on privies, on fences, said with a giggle, carrying no more meaning to her ears than the squawk of guineas running crazily along ditches in search of worms.
“You all right?” Tracy had said; and then, to Nat, “Beat it. She’s not that kind. And don’t let me catch you around here again.”
“Haw, haw, haw,” Nat showed tobacco-stained teeth and lolled his tongue. “I didn’t know she was yourn.”
“She’s not mine,” Tracy said and reddened. “Now git—before I knock the liver-an-lights out of you.”
Nat Ashley put his hands in his pockets, sauntered slowly away to show he wasn’t afraid of nobody! Increased his nonchalance by jumping a gallberry bush. Grew in manliness by shouting to the boys on the distant ball ground, “Hi, how about some shinny?” Faded from their sight and from their lives.
The swamp had thrown deep shadows. Hounds barked in Nigger Town and beat the dust with their tails. The smell of scorched cloth from shanties clung to the sweet, near odor of honeysuckle in her hand.
Slowly she took a step toward him. “I am yourn,” she whispered, and held out the grubby flowers.
Twelve-year-old Tracy took them. “You’d better run home,” he said. “Your mama oughtn’t allow you to run round alone. What were you doin, anyways?”
“Picking flowers and—” She hesitated.
“And what?” he probed.
“And visiting.” She stooped, pulled a sandspur from her foot, pushed her toes deep into sand.
“Visiting? Who?”
“Everywheres. The swamp, mostly.”
He spat and studied her face. “What you do in that swamp?”
“Nothing. Just goes.” She paused. “It says, ‘Come here, come here, come here.’”
He squinted his eyes.
“You hear it?” she whispered.
“Nope. Nothing but frogs croaking, and dogs.”
She smiled, pushed her black wavy hair from her face, drew in a deep breath.
Tracy spat again, looked away. “Silly way to talk,” he chided, “it’s silly. You’ve got no business going near that swamp. You might get lost. Who you belong to?”
“I’se Tillie’s child.”
“Tillie?”
She searched for a meeting ground. “She’s Miz Purviance’s cook.”
“Yeah, I know. Now run on before it’s pitch-dark.”
“Who is you?” Voice shy in its first social exploration.
“I’m Tracy Deen. Dr. Deen’s son.”
She looked at him gravely.
“Now run along! Ought to tell your mama on you.”
She started toward the old Anderson place, walked a few steps, stopped, watched him cut through the gallberry bushes. In the dusk she could see him limp a little, could see his shoulder twist. He stooped over a bush. When he went on again his hands were empty. She sighed, began to run hard, dreading the scolding her sister Bess would give her for staying out so late.
In the dusk he stood now before her, tall, stooped. Took her hands from the gate, held them. “You all right?” His eyes searched her face, moved from her hair to her eyes, to her throat.
“Of course.” She laughed softly.
“Cool. Your hands are cool, and it’s hot as hell.”
“I know. Boysie’s cried all day.”
“Boysiel How do you stand the slobbering little idiot day after—”
“I don’t mind. It’s a fine job for a girl like me,” she said and smiled at the white man.
Tracy did not smile.
“Come in,” she said. “I’ll fix you something cool to drink. It’s better in the arbor.”
“No, I promised Mother—promised a lot of people—to go to the meeting tonight. Think all Maxwell is praying for me. Goddam em.”
He opened the gate, came inside. Slim and white she stood there before him in the dusk. He pulled her behind a spirea bush. “I’m too hot to touch you,” he whispered. “Sweet and cool … always sweet and cool … you smell
“I’m glad.”
“All right. Tell me quick. What’s happened?”
She looked up at him steadily. “I’m pregnant, Tracy.”
She felt his hand tremble on her arm. “And I’m glad,” she whispered.
“Glad? You can’t bel”
“I’m glad.”
“But—”
“You see,” she spoke quickly, “I want it. I’ll have something they—can’t take away from me.” Voice low, hard to hear the words.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like thinking something for a long time you can’t put into words. One day you write it down. You always have it after that.”
His face eased into the old quick grin. “Might have been better this time to have written it down, Non.”
He frowned, ran his fingers slowly over the fence pickets. “Let’s don’t think about it,” he said.
“All right,” she whispered. She looked at him and smiled, and he stared into her eyes as if he had not heard a word that she had ever said. “I wish you were glad,” she said and felt her body shaking against his in sudden betrayal of her calm.
“Reckon we ought to talk about it, or something—” He looked out toward the swamp, forgetting his words. In the dusk she’s as white as Laura. God, if she weren’t a nigger! Lord God what a mess …
“No, we don’t need to talk about it.”
“Well, good-by, honey.” He touched her hair, turned away, stopped, faced her again. “It’s Mother. She—you know how it is! Nothing I’ve ever done has pleased her, as you know.” He laughed abruptly. “Now the damned meeting’s got her worked up. After dinner she—I don’t know what’s happened. Seems—well, she said—lot of things—about joining the church, settling down. Other things—Laura’s lack of interest in church—seems disappointed in her children.” He laughed. Non waited. “Nothing new as far as I’m concerned. First time I ever heard her put Laura in the red.” He laughed again. “Well … better be going.”
He stared into the evening. Turned suddenly, opened the picket gate, closed it. “I may come back tonight late. All right?”
“All right,” Nonnie whispered, knowing he would not come.
TWO
Ed finished the mullet, took a swallow of coffee from the thick hot cup, mopped his face. He laid a quarter on the counter, leaned toward Salamander—same old dried tobacco leaf he was five years ago—shouted in the old man’s ear, “You keep it at the boiling point down here.”
—same old place—same old roaches—
“Sho.”
—same old dirt—same old window full of Bruton snuff—
“Been like this all summer?”
—same old Coca-Cola signs—
“Sho.”
—same old rag in Salamander’s hand—
“Hotter than Washington, and that’s something. How’re things?”
—same old spit—same old stink—
“Tollable.” Salamander put the quarter in his pocket, leaned over the counter, peered into his customer’s face. Blue lips puckered, sniffing, laying his rag down on the counter, sniffing again. “Who it be?”
“Ed Anderson.”
“Sho, sho,” staring at the light brown Negro, sleek in Palm Beach suit, cocky in white straw hat. “Sho,” he repeated and rubbed his gray-woolled head.
Ed stood on the sidewalk. In front of him was the garbage-heaped alley of stores facing College Street. He could have been looking into a back alley of Washington, New York, anywhere. To the right of him four stores separated Salamander’s Lunch Counter (Colored) from the white people’s Deen’s Corner Drug Store. Now he looked straight into Georgia. White girls in cars blew horns, ordered cokes, laughed, crossed their legs, uncrossed them, stared through him as their line of vision passed his body. He was a black digit marked out by white chalk. He wasn’t there on the sidewalk. He never had been there … he just wasn’t anywhere—where those eyes looked—where those damned eyes—
So this was his home town. You’ve never had a home town! Where he was born. You’ve never been born! Maxwell, Georgia. You know the word!
He’d dreamed its deep sand paths hot to bare feet, spat-spat of rain on palmettos, old rickety house pushed against the swamp; dreamed hot unmoving nights when moss hung heavy against his face and his heart; dreamed its smooth hot days blazing against the eye; dreamed it still had something to do with his blood and his soul.
Well, he didn’t want it. Wouldn’t have it! Not a goddam bit of it! Why on earth Bess and Nonnie lived on in this dirty hole—
He turned toward Back Street, paused near the town water tank. Its drip-drip beat on his memory. He was delivering groceries on a bicycle, stopping under the tower, leaning under the drip, letting it spatter his hot face and run into his mouth and down his neck, feeling its sudden coolness slide like ice on his skin—racing Al back to the Supply Store, jamming his wheel hard into crates and coops, while little Mr. Pusey clucked, “Not so fast, boys, not so fast,” and scampered out of the way as bicycles and boys piled on top of each other in a tearing shriek of scraping metal and laughter. Little Mr. Pug Pusey would stand there, pulling his pants up, pulling his lips down in a pout, until boys and wheels had righted themselves; then he’d march into the store in silence, his little pudgy hips quivering in disapproval.
Ed laughed, pushed his hat over to one side of his head, walked on. Felt better somehow. Better.
Somebody black said, “Hi, Stranger.” He grinned, gave a brisk salute. At the back of the Stephensons’ big white house he paused, looked down the yard for Bess, turned away. She’d be home by now. Had to talk to Bess. Relieved that he didn’t have to do it now. Dreaded a talk with Bess. Like talking to God. End up by her knowing all about you. With Mama dead, bet she bosses Non like. Mr. Almighty himself. Well … he was taking Non back. That’s what he’d come for. And time! Rotting away in this place. Last night, tried to put a little life into things. They’d just sat there. Just sat. Be like Miss Ada next, just sit staring out into the graveyard. All they did was go to work, come home, go to work. Seemed enough. Enough for niggers in Georgia … sure! And after all Mama had done to give them all a start. If she weren’t dead, she’d take a stick after—
Mama dead. You said the words. Like scuffing sand against your shoes, watching the grains fall away again. You said them. You couldn’t believe them. Last night as you stood there with your bags in your hand waiting for the train to pull in, waiting for it to stop, you’d said the words. And something had tightened in your throat. And you were afraid when you saw Non and Bess, afraid when you saw your sisters standing there, afraid you’d show how you were feeling. But you didn’t. As you swung off the coach, you knew suddenly that they were not thinking about Mama, for Bess said something and laughed and Non was smiling. It shocked him to see them laughing and carefree, standing there under the station light, when last he had seen them was at her funeral, weighed down with her death. Under the station light they stood apart from the white people, waiting. Non tall, a little thin. Bess short, plump. Little Jackie in front of them, looking at the train, darting away toward the white coach.
“This way, Jackie, the coach is down this way,” Bess’s words rang out clipped and swift, like pebbles pouring on the ground. And Jackie turned and ran toward the Colored coach as he swung off the steps.
“Hi, boy.” The kid had grown.
Jackie, suddenly shy, ran quickly to his mother. And they all had laughed and he had kissed his sisters and rubbed his hand over the boy’s curly head, and then they had stood and looked at each other, searching for the word that starts the old family rhythms beating again.
He’d taken Non’s arm and his fingers felt the bone through the flesh. “You’re thin, Non,” he’d said. And she had smiled and answered in that low voice she never bothered to raise, “About the same, I think.”
“Can’t say the same for me,” Bess laughed. Keep on talking about weight. You can always do that.
“Afraid not. How much more? Ten pounds?”
“Not quite. But bad enough.”
Say something else about weight. Good thing to talk about—
“How about me, Uncle Ed?”
