Strange Fruit, page 15
“Let me think it over. Dad.”
“But not a year this time?”
Tracy laughed. “Not quite.”
“Now if I were running a farm again,” Tut’s eyes lighting up with the old dream, “tell you what I’d do. I’d put in peanuts and some hogs, as well as cotton; and I’d do a little trucking on the side—cantaloupes, say, or beans. And if we could get the old Deen place, I’d take that hillside stretch back of the old barn where there’s a big gully now and I’d put it in grass and get me some good stock—”
“Dad, I don’t know a darned thing about that kind of farming. If I took it, it’d have to be cotton—”
“Well,” Dad interrupted swiftly, “the easiest thing’s cotton, of course. Reckon the old way is maybe the surest, as well as the easiest.” Dad had half sighed, suddenly.
Tracy did not answer his father. All he saw was his mother’s face, watching him, waiting for him to turn respectable, waiting … And if be did … suppose he did—would she like it? Would she … or would she find something else? Sometimes he had a crazy feeling that she wouldn’t be satisfied if he wasn’t a failure. Needed to be disappointed. Sometimes he wondered if he’d lost his mind when he thought things like this … if anyone else ever did …
His father was talking again. “… as to getting married … Time comes when a man needs to get married. Sometimes it’s the only thing that’ll keep you going. You’ve got to have a goal, somebody to work for … or else there’s no sense—” Dad paused, picked up his words a little wearily, as if he had made a long journey somewhere in those seconds—“plugging at it. I know some boys have to put it off a long time, try a lot of other things first. But … time comes. And on the farm you’d need a wife. Somebody smart and willing to make a nice home. Who it’s to be is up to you. Though your mother and I would like to see you stick to Dorothy.”
That was a long and intimate speech for Tut. And they stood facing each other in a silence hard to break. “Well,” Dad said, finally, “got some calls to make. Think it over, Tracy.”
“O.K., Dad.”
O.K., Dad. Well, it wasn’t O.K. But what was wrong with it now? You had to settle down sometime—couldn’t keep on living off the family, though the farm would be living off them in a way. And maybe a more expensive way. Still, it’d do as well as anything else. About as good a way of half starving in Georgia as any other. As for Dorothy—Dorothy … Dorothy … thrown at you everywhere you turned! Mother, now Dad, Dorothy herself. In a nice way of course—it’d be nice if it was Dorothy! All of Maxwell deciding it was time he did something about Dorothy. They didn’t say anything—didn’t have to when it was plastered on their faces big as road signs. Just because he had started taking Dorothy to parties when they were in high school together. And starting, didn’t know how to quit. Trouble with him … he never knew how to quit anything—didn’t know how to quit any—Get started, keep on, like a fool—like a damfool. Everybody pulling at him—Mother, Dorothy, Dad … that ass of a Henry’d be doing it next. And because he didn’t come up to something they expected of him, he was a failure. Sure … when all he wanted was to be let alone. Yes, by God, to be let alone! No-count … sure … while everything Laura, with her degrees decorating her like a slimy French general, did was just right. “And what honors did you bring home this time … Cackling geese, the whole town. After him now … evangelist hot on his heels …
Tracy sat down on the railroad track.
God, he breathed, how easy … how damned easy … it’d be to let a freight flatten you out. Nothing left … to be pulled at … disappointed over. If you could decide to do it.…
And then it was as if Nonnie sat there beside him. Cool, quiet … waiting. Not saying a word. Waiting.
So strong was the feeling that he turned to see.
He laughed. Hell of a good time you can have feeling so godawful sorry for yourself …
He was suddenly at peace, as a lull comes in heavy winds.
Nonnie … yes, she pulled too. She wanted something too. But it was not something he could not understand. Something he could not be. Crazy. Sounded crazy in his own mind even, but she wanted him just as he was.
He laughed aloud.
Yes, Nonnie and the hound dog long dead and Big Henry were the only ones satisfied with him. A hound dog and two niggers. High-falutin list of friends. Fine honors to please the family with. Well, he could add Dorothy to the list. Maybe that’d help.
He laughed again, hurting now, pressing the thought in as if this hurt eased another.
Dorothy … He could see her as she had been tonight in the porch swing. Wearing a green voile dress which she had made herself. She’d told him that. Crisp black hair, gray-yellow eyes. Face thin, as was she, and sometimes with a way of looking very pretty and petite in a small-town way. Most of the time vivacious and cute. She’d be cute at fifty and not so petite either—probably skinny. Well, that was Dorothy. Clean, herself, and kept the Pusey house clean. Made good cucumber pickle and excellent fudge and was pleased over doing both. Sang in the choir. Nothing really wrong about Dorothy, Always cheerful and bright … full of energy … talked enough so that he didn’t have to bother to talk much. Liked him. Yes, she liked him. If it was just to change him. As she was always doing to the Pusey rooms. She liked them too. Satisfied with them in a way. Fine house for changing. Always changing the furniture around and painting something a different color. Be what she’d do to him too. Have a brush out after him …
God … he didn’t have to marry the girl! No Papa Pusey with a shotgun after him—The idea of little Pug Pusey clucking along with a shotgun was funny enough to make Tracy smile and shake the hair out of his face.
But he might as well, he sighed. Might as well give in. Never been able in his life to have a run-in with Mother and win. Whole life spotted with times he’d kept his mouth shut and taken his beating. Could take his beating now. There’d always be Nonnie. Yes, there’d be Nonnie. When Dot got behind him too much with her paintbrush he’d go to Nonnie and she would peel the new paint off down to the old Tracy. And she’d let him get everything out of his system and would sit there, not talking but there. And whatever he wanted she would give him. That was Non. Her body—or a drink of water. It’d all be the same. And she’d give it like a swamp bay lets you smell its sweetness. Just as simply.
Not Dorothy. He’d have a time with that girl. He thought now of her sallow-faced mother. Dorothy’d think it wrong or the way wrong, or too much of it wrong, or something. It didn’t make much difference. As long as he had Non.
Non … Once he had been down at the depot when she came home from Washington. Non got off the day coach, walked across the cinder square, a queen in her gray tailored suit and plain blouse, her head held effortlessly high, dignity as much hers as her eyes. She did not see him, nor did he give sign of recognizing her. But his eyes followed her swift sure movement. She had not yet assumed her “Mrs. Brown’s maid” demeanor. It was as if she was not yet aware that she was back in Maxwell. And it gave him a thrill to see her like that, until he remembered her race, and then it made him sick at his stomach and confused. He’d tried to laugh it off. Who wouldn’t! He’d—
Once he had dropped in to see her. Late. Nonnie came out to the arbor in a yellow chiffon evening dress. She and Bess had given a party and had dressed up in honor of some out-of-town friends. He could not keep his eyes off of her. Bewitched at the girl’s beauty and poise. Bewitched. And angered. You’d think God wanted to play a fine joke and had made Nonnie. Here, He said, is a woman any man would love and be proud of. She has everything you could desire. But you can’t have her. No. You can have sips and tastes, but you can’t have her. And you’ll be ashamed and sneak around and feel nasty.… That’s the price you have to pay—for the sips.
Well … white men had paid it before. And thought it cheap. Guess he could too.
Nonnie … going to have a baby. He hadn’t thought of it once when he was with her tonight. And Nonnie hadn’t mentioned it. Nonnie never bothered you with … things … You’d think having gone to college and everything … she’d know how not to get herself in this kind of trouble. You’d … well, lucky she’s colored. Or else! Said she didn’t mind. Said she didn’t. Now damn it, isn’t it the strangest thing how nigger will out! Here’s Nonnie, college-educated, smooth as any Atlanta debutante could hope to be, making most Maxwell white girls seem mighty small-town. Yet when it comes to a thing like this, she doesn’t mind any more than a turpentine nigger gal. Said she wanted it. Said—Funny. Yes … Non’s funny … queer … Wonder—
Oh, he’d fix it up some way. Make it as easy for her as he could. Long way off … no use to worry now … put her out on the farm … fix it some way …
All settled as far as he was concerned. Ready for the wedding bells. With this ring I make thee respectable … your mother’s son. Ready for Dorothy. If she could put up with him, he could with her. And maybe things would be better … away … in their own house. Maybe … Lord God …
He stood up. The moon was dropping below the line of pines west of the hammock. There was a cool stir of air, as if dawn were about to break.
Better be going. He started up the track toward home. Started walking up the track. Stopped. He’d left something. Nonnie sitting there on a crosstie. A huddled-up Nonnie in the moonlight. Looked back, kept looking back at the empty track. Kept looking back, cursing his craziness. Kept looking back, cursing the emptiness, cursing the craziness. Kept looking back as a hand pulled at his coat, a life at his memory.
Lightheaded. Drunk. Weak. He closed his hand, tried to tense muscles, couldn’t get a grip. You feel like this with a spell of fever. You feel like this …
At the Deen gate he stopped. Looked across the street. Pusey house stood as it had stood forever, curlicue porch and banisters, honeysuckle sticking to everything, gluing everything together, swing, rockers, Mrs. Pusey, Dorothy, himself. Half a mind to go over now and get it settled. Half a mind to do it now so it couldn’t be changed. Go over and wake up blue-faced Mrs. Pusey. Sick mother of Dottie—all the rest of her children dead in the graveyard. Everybody better dead in the graveyard … go to graveyard and wake them up … tell them …
A neighbor’s cat ran between his legs and disappeared in the oak gloom. He listened to its pad, pad, pad, pad, pad, pad, pad … listened long after it had left the street, filling in the silence … listened, making the sounds come back in the silence.
A driblet of moss loosened from the oak limb above him, fell on his shoulder. He jumped. Laughed. Oh well, nothing like a little sleep. You need a little sleep, you know … better sleep some … better die some … better—
He walked with no sound through the living room, felt around in the dark for the turn in the hall, feeling his way now up the stairs. A sound from the library. He paused. Sobbing. Somebody crying. You’re not crying … you … No light in the library. Just sounds. Young girl sounds. Laura. Never’d seen Laura cry. Everybody crying … crazy … everybody … better …
Slowly he went up the stairs, stopped on each step, feeling for the next with his foot. Slow and dull, as if he had heard strange bad news from a far country.
TEN
Tut drove slowly home. Already late for dinner and with calls to make, he let the car move as slowly as it would through sand ruts; his mind moving with it along the ruts of right and wrong.
You can’t change right and wrong because somebody you love stands in the middle of the road—
Then what you do, run over her?
But if something’s wrong and you do it to save Grace, then where are you—where’s your ethics—where’s your medical—
Where’s little Grace?
Let somebody else—
Sure, let Aunt Mag with her dirt—let some crooked abortionist in Atlanta—let anybody do the sinning but—
Tut straightened the car in the road.
If a nigger had raped her it’d be different—it’d be different, but—
What’s going to happen to Grace?
—but this was—she did it for fun—for fun with a boy she liked—
“She’s a baby, Tut! Not fifteen.” L.D. talking, his best friend talking, in the office this morning. “She’s not a bad girl, you know—you know that—”
“Yes, I know that.”
“You love her, Tut—”
“Next to Laura.”
“Then why the devil—”
Tut had dried his freckled hands, eyes staring into the towel, trying to think of an answer. Turning the roller-towel to a fresh place, drying again the red hairs on hands already dry, as his slow tongue hunted words.
“How long, Tut—since—”
“Two months, or more.”
“You’re sure—you’re sure it couldn’t be somethi—”
“No doubt about it.” Tut sat at his desk now, fingering a prescription pad, picking at his mustache.
“It’s that damned Mart Paine …”
Tut picked up the pad, put it down.
“I could shoot him of course. What good would it do?”
“There’s marriage.”
“Not to that white trash. He’ll never amount to a hill of beans.”
You could hear Mrs. Stephenson talking to Grace in the adjoining room. They’d be out soon—they’d—
“And I’ll not let Maxwell talk.”
“There’ll be talk.”
“Not as long as I live.”
The unasked question made more words between the two men hard. Tut played with the pad, laid it down, picked at his mustache. L.D. Stephenson’s strong brown hand rubbed the side of the old leather chair, rubbed, paused, rubbed again. Finally:
“You’ll do it, Tut?”
Dr. Deen shook his head.
“If it’s money—”
“You know better than that.”
“Friendship?” On Stephenson’s dark face a sneer, as quickly gone.
But he didn’t mean it. “You’ve never failed me as a friend,” Tut said. “I’d do almost anything, God knows, but murder.”
“Don’t reckon you’ve ever killed a patient?” Bitter now.
“Not on purpose,” Tut half smiled.
LD.’s eyes were hard. “So you’ll drive me to Aunt Mag instead—with her damned filthiness—I suppose you know what killed Katie Dillon?”
“I know.”
“Drop your medical rot and use your brain. What’s the difference? Suppose she dies at Aunt Mag’s? Won’t you be as responsible for that death as for the other?”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“No … you doctors, all fools and hypocrites. Damn the whole lot of you! I thought you loved the kid—”
“Almost as much as Laura.”
“Then why the hell—”
Tut started again. “If a nigger had assaulted her, or if she would lose her life in childbirth I’d—”
“Oh sure! Sure … I know all that talk.” L.D. now reverted to the familiar role of a bargaining politician. “Tut … there’s the old Deen place. You’ve been wanting it a long time …”
Tut waited. L.D.’s eyes lighted and his words came fast. “Tut, you could put Tracy out there. You’ve wanted it back ever since you lost it. I know. It’d solve a lot of problems. We’d do things for Tracy. Put him in the legislature. Give the boy something to do, to think about. Get him out of this town … away … I’ll—” L.D. paused, studied Deen’s face, suddenly changed his words. “You’ve got me. All my life I’ve put things over on you. I’ve ridden friendship to the limit. You’ve got me now. Anything you say, Tut. It goes.”
Tut did not hear the melodrama of L.D.’s words, nor feel the thinly concealed scorn which was so habitual to L.D. that even now when he was asking of his friend the biggest favor he had ever asked of any man, it slipped over his words like a bland film of oil. Tut was remembering Little Ma. Remembering her words: “There’s right and there’s wrong. You’ll do right as a doctor, Son, or wrong. There’s no middle road.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do it.”
L. D. knew when he was beaten.
“Well … if you can’t you—Is it Aunt Mag then?”
“I … don’t know.”
“With all my friends, after twenty years in the legislature, I don’t know a damned soul I’d ask the name of an abortionist of. There must be a decent one in Atlanta. Who is it?”
Steps in the other room moving toward the door. “For Christ sake, don’t be so squeamish!”
“Try—” Doc turned, wrote a name on a prescription slip.
“You’d trust him?”
“He knows his business. And if you’re going to do it, better hurry.”
Mrs. Stephenson and Grace quietly entered the room.
“All right, sugar,” Dr. Deen smiled at the pretty little blonde Grace, rumpled her hair, “run on to church,” pulled her hair again, evaded Mrs. Stephenson’s eyes.
“Now, Helen,” Stephenson spoke briskly, “I want you and Grace to go on to church as if nothing had happened.”
“Brother Dunwoodie is having dinner with us,” Mrs. Stephenson said in a level, colorless voice.
“Good. I’ll get back. Gotta run out to the farm now. All right.” He smiled, evading Mrs. Stephenson’s eyes. “See you later.”
There’s right and there’s wrong. There’s got to be right and wrong. You couldn’t, you wouldn’t, know where to turn—
