Strange Fruit, page 20
Hear Gus laughing. Gus went to the altar tonight. Didn’t get saved. No. Getting harder every year for the preacher to convert Gus. Get saved in Colored Town—get you a nigger—she’ll save you—make you feel good—make—O.K. by him. If that’s the way men work things out—O.K. by him. He’d marry Dorothy, join the church. Sure! What’s the harm in joining the church. Sure! He’d live a respectable life from now on—but by God he’d have his nigger. If that’s the way they did it. All right by him. He’d fix things. But he’d still have her.
He stopped. Some whisky somewhere around here. At Snooks’ Place. Do him good to have a little whisky—that’s why women hate it so—do you good—Give it up for my sake. Sure. For my sake—do this for me. You’ll hurt your mother. Do this for me—do that for me. Sure—sure. She worries so—you’re making her nervous. It’s her bad time—change of life. Try to be easy on her now—try to—
He cut across to avoid the boys. Went back of the A.M.E. Church to Snooks’ cabin. Snooks waddled to the door, gleaming like a sunset, her yellow vastness encased in pink silk.
“En will you be comin in, Mr. Deen?”
“Just give me a pint, Snooks, and make it snappy, will you?”
Snooks waddled back with the pint, decorously closed the door behind her. You could hear the girls laughing inside. Gus’s girls—and the other boys’ girls.
“Hit’s a purty evenin, ain’t it?” crooned Snooks.
“It’s all right, I reckon.” Tracy turned quickly away.
He sat down on the steps of the A.M.E. Church, and drank the whisky. Back of him in there they worshiped God too. The blacks. Yeah—they had their razor fights and their women—went on their drunks and stole and worshiped God. Scared of something—like white folks. Everybody scared. All but the women—they’re not scared. No, God! All they want is to keep you scared—keep you from having—
Tracy took another drink. So still back there … everything dark. Nobody there … not even God. Empty. Empty—everything—so—
He drank from the bottle slowly now, held it afterward, rubbing his finger down the smooth surface … up … down.
—so goddam lonely—church so lonely—things so—
He laid the bottle on the step. Stood up. Time to go. Yeah. Go to his nigger—Go to your own folks!
He stopped. He could not remember where he was or what he had to do.
The path was dark here and still. Ahead of him was the row of tall cedars, edging the graveyard and Miss Ada’s place. He walked on slowly. Stopped again, feeling confused, sick. As if he’d lost something. He felt that he must remember what it was—he had to remember—it was absolutely necessary for him to remember—
Yeah. That’s right. He was on his way to Nonnie.
At the arbor he called, stood by the old wicker chair and called. “Nonnie!” He listened. Yeah—that’s her name. That’s right. “Oh … Nonnie!” That’s right. That’s her name. Sure to be her name. “Oh … Nonnie!”
She came quickly out of the back door. “Tracy! I’m glad you’ve come,” she whispered.
“Come on,” he said.
“Sssh,” she whispered, and led the way quickly down the path toward Aunt Tyse’s cabin.
“Sssh yourself,” he said, but she was hurrying on down the path. “Got a surprise for you,” he laughed.
“Surprise?”
They walked on, Nonnie ahead of him. Now at the cabin door. Nonnie looking at him as if she didn’t know him.
“Surprise, Tracy?”
“Sure. Caught you, see? Caught you. Caught on. See?”
She looked at him a moment, said very quietly, “Let’s sit here on the steps and talk. It’s so warm.”
“Stop talking like that. Think you can act like a white girl, huh? Well, won’t let you. Been playing that trick on me all my life, haven’t you? Mighty smart—yeah—making everybody laugh at me—making everybody laugh, you hear? Making the whole goddamed town laugh its head off—you—”
“Tracy—”
“I’ve caught on. You’re nigger … yesh … nigger. Thass all. Thass all I wanted—all I ever wanted—anybody say I wanted more goddam lie.”
Girl staring at him. Face white. Eyes staring black. “Let’s go back. You’re not yourself. Let’s go. Let’s go back—” saying it as if she knew no other words.
“Not myself? Maybe you don’t know myself—what nigger girl knows myself?”
“I’m going back. When you feel better—”
“Oh no. Since when? Since when? Get this. I’ve come for something—not going till I get it. You know! Not going till I—Come on—show me—you know—show me quick!” He had pulled her inside the cabin now, and they stood just inside the door facing each other. Nonnie did not move toward him.
“Goddam you—when I speak—I—I—Come here!”
Non had not moved. Now she walked up to him laid her hand on his shoulder, looked in his face. “Tracy … they … they’re wrong—you don’t have to listen to them when they say things—you don’t have to believe it—Let’s go outside—let’s go and talk—”
“Talk—like hell talk. Goddam you—Didn’t come here to talk.”
“You’re tired. They’ve done so much—”
“Tired! Take your hand off my shoulder. What you—” Suddenly he shoved her from him, and she fell against the wall, struck her breast against a stud, lost her balance, fell to the floor. For a moment she could not get to her feet.
“Non! You’re hurt!” He had quickly come up to her. Stopped. “Well, I’m glad. Yesh, I’m glad. Why should I do all the hurting? I’m glad—you hear—” Now he was down by her. “You’re mine—even if you’re just a little nigger, you’re mine and I love every inch of you. How about that coming from a white man, huh? How about … I love every inch of you.… goddam em, I love every inch of you—every inch of you—they can’t keep me from loving every inch of you—they can’t keep me—they can’t keep me—give you the works, that’s what they do—every inch of you—that’s what they do—that’s—”
“Tracy—please—you’re drunk—you don’t know what you’re doing—you don’t know—you—” She was crying now but she made no effort to stop his hand.
He saw somebody pulling at her dress, fumbling with buttons, tearing it from her shoulders. Saw somebody tearing her blouse off, tearing her skirt off, pulling at cloth until there was nothing between his hands and her body. He saw a man—couldn’t see much, couldn’t see much—a man above her, saw him press her down against the floor—don’t do that!—saw him press her body hard—saw him try and fail, try and fail, try and fail … heard a low sobbing … a deep harsh cry—she’s crying—no, it’s you crying—it’s you—you couldn’t—you—couldn’t—couldn’t … you couldn’t—you couldn’t—you couldn’t—
She was gone. The moonlight sprayed across Aunt Tyse’s cabin, lighting the floor, opening boards on the wall, cracking old shutters, making a big empty space between dark corners. She wasn’t there. “Nonnie! Where are you? Oh, Nonnie!” And then he heard someone calling somebody.
He sat on the broken-down steps of Aunt Tyse’s cabin. His head ached and his muscles were sore. Morning was breaking over the pine trees. Back of him the palmettos cracked and snapped with the wind that blew close to the hot ground, cooling the early day.
Non was gone. He could not remember when she had left or what had made her go. She was gone from the cabin and out of his life. All the women that had ever bothered him were gone. Yeah … something swept through his life, cleaned the women out.
He tried to laugh. Thinking a thought like that ought to be funny. You ought to laugh at anything that’s funny. You ought to die laughing at a thing that’s funny—what’s funny—what—ought to die—laughing—funny—die—
A board creaked in the house and he was standing. Why he’d moved so quickly he didn’t know. He knew he’d better get going. Better get going and keep going from this old cabin. From this old path that led to the swamp. How come he ever got on it, he’d never know. All he knew now, he was leaving it. Walk out of a house, slam the door, lock it, never return to it. Maybe that’s what conversion is. Shutting a door, locking it. Funny thing … how it had always worried him. Always worried him. That, and hell. Didn’t believe in hell but you let it worry you. Yeah—you let things worry you. Well, nothing’d worry you now any more. Now any more—
He was on the path leading to White Town. On the right path. He stopped by a palmetto and relieved himself. Watched the urine sink quickly into the sand. Be fine if you could get rid of your troubles easy as that. Pour them into the earth. Easy as that. Easy as—
From the path you could see the roof of the old Anderson house if you looked. But you didn’t have to look. And between you and its back shed and grape arbor was the cane patch. You didn’t have to look.
He cut across by Miss Ada’s, across back fields.
Better not try the house. Dad up pottering around on the side lawn with his flowers. Dad goes to bed late, gets up early. As if there’s nothing much to stay in bed for. Take the lane. Go to Henry’s cabin. Better get a little sleep—see Dot. Get her ring. Poor little girl waiting for her ring.
When Tracy walked in, Henry jumped out of bed, expressing no surprise. He dressed, made up the bed with clean sheets, clean counterpane. Tracy fell across it, did not remember anything more until Henry was shaking him.
There was a pot of coffee and some breakfast on the table. You didn’t want it.
“Your ma asked me if I seen you dis mawning. I say I seed you out walkin wid Miss Dorothy.”
“How about a drink?”
“Better take yo breakfast, Mr. Tracy.”
“How about a drink?”
Henry poured a little whisky into the old crockery cup.
“She say give you dis envelope.”
Tracy laid it aside.
“Henry—” Tracy poured himself another drink.
“Now eat yo breakfast, Mr. Tracy.”
Tracy picked up the envelope, laid it aside.
“Drink yo coffee, Mr. Tracy.”
Tracy drank the coffee.
Henry put the plate before him. “Eat yo breakfast.”
Tracy pushed the plate away. “What time is it?”
“Goin on leven.”
“Lord! Had a date with Miss Dorothy at ten.” He laughed. “Pour me a drink.” Henry poured a very little in the cup.
“Henry … ever thought of getting married?”
“Gawd no!”
Tracy stared out the back door. Picked up the cup, drained it, pushed it slowly along the window sill.
“Henry—I’m marrying Miss Dorothy.”
“Gawd Jesus—you jokin!”
Tracy did not seem to hear Henry’s words, continued to push the cup slowly up and down the window sill. Up it would move, a white object, towards the window frame, back again. Up and back—a heavy white cup on a splintery window ledge.
It was a long silence. Black Henry scratched his head, studied the face of this white man he had known and played with all his life. Then like a shadow that disappears as one changes direction in the sun, his black sycophancy dropped from him. “Tracy,” he said softly, “whassa matter, boy? Tell a man whassa matter.”
Tracy turned and looked at his friend. White face twisted, despairing. Black face bulged with sympathy, lips pouting with affection, eyes batting dismay.
“I wish to God I knew,” he whispered and covered his face with his hands.
Henry squatted down by him. Once when Tracy was fourteen he had cried. The day the two of them found his dog after the Five O’clock had run over it. A look at the creature and Tracy had flung himself beside it in the sandspurs. Appalled by the spectacle of so desperate a grief, Henry had watched him, with tongue too thick for words. But after a time his hands had found their work and slowly he had picked up the fragments of the little animal and laid them on a board in careful semblance of what had been destroyed.
But now his big hands hung idle. He listened to the tearing sound of Tracy’s sobs and made futile movements with his tongue while sweat poured from his armpits. And then in a frantic gush of sympathy, half falling over his own big feet, he knelt beside his friend and put his arms around him, grunting out inarticulate comfort.
On Back Street a Ford chugged through deep sand ruts, past the Stephensons’, turned toward Colored Town. From the kitchen Henry could hear Eenie banging pans in ill temper because he had not come to help her, and he knew it would not be long before she would whirl like a black cyclone down the path and into the cabin to see with her own eyes what was keeping him, and to see with her own eyes whatever else she could see … The damned old bitchlouse, he thought lucidly, and to his surprise, aloud.
Tracy raised his head, stared at Henry, “Well, I be durned. What’re we doing, having a love feast?” Laughed, pushed the Negro away from him.
“Henry, for Christ’s sake you stink like a polecat. Don’t you ever wash?”
“Yassuh. I washes. I sho does. Mebbe not so sufficient.”
“I say not so sufficient! Pour me a drink and get a move on you to the house. It must be late.”
Henry poured a drink. “Hit’s yo fourth one, Mr. Tracy,” he said quietly.
“What the hell if it is?”
“Yo ma will smell it sho.”
“Tell her I won’t be in for dinner. And use a little bar soap before you go in or you’ll turn her stomach. Hear?”
“Yassuh.”
“Go over and tell Miss Dorothy that I’ll see her this afternoon. Tell her I was called out on business this morning.”
“Yassuh.”
“Get on with you. I’m tired of seeing you around.”
“Yassuh,” whispered Big Henry McIntosh, and walked softly out the front door of the cabin toward the kitchen. He paused, took the path to the servants’ lavatory underneath the pantry. He walked slowly in, picked up a piece of yellow laundry soap, turned on the faucet. He watched the water dribble into the sink, swirl around the rusted bottom, disappear into the drain. He wet the soap and rubbed it on his armpits, sloshed water until heavy suds foamed on his black flesh and rolled down his muscled forearm. With a finger he raked the suds down his arm to his hand. “Hit’s da meetin—dey got im plumb crazy,” he sobbed, and swallowed the sound against the towel. He washed his face and neck and dried thoroughly and took out a fine-tooth comb and ran it carefully through the front of his hair. He looked at the dark brown reflection in the blurred mirror over the sink, and once more he washed his face.
And then he went up to the kitchen.
“So hit’s you, sashayin roun like you was in Noo Yawk—one hour late, dat all, dat—”
“I stopped to rench off a liddle—”
“Hit’d take mo’n a cold water rench,” Eenie interrupted, “to wash dat likker off’n yo breaf, ef dat how come you a-renchin—”
“Listen, big gal—spose you could shut yo mouf?”
“Big gal … Big gal … Is you crazy! I done tuck all I gwine take fum sech as you. Me and Miz Deen done put up with a Gawd-sight of fool triflin on count of yo po ma and pa. And we thoo … Thoo!”
“You an Miz Deen, huh?” Henry shook his hips at her in disgust. “A lot you got to do wid it! Mr. Tracy is my boss—hear tell of im befoh?”
“Dat white boy … he done spiled you, en you is pizened him. An him makin tracks fo de bad place fas as de devil can pint em out, a po los soul—I asses you,” Eenie swelled out like a pompous toad, “who to blame—”
“Shut yo mouf, you blabbin old black bitch,” Henry was suddenly beside himself. “You asses me, does you? Well, I’ll ass you ef you lets out anudder soun—en hit won’t be wid ma mouf.” Henry pranced over to the wall and picked up an iron skillet and, on his toes now, edged nearer the object of his anger. “Jes one soun, en I’ll lay dis iron on yo old black tail and beat it to jelly! I plum sick of you and yo Miz Deen,” his voice squeezed out slow words, “you—an—y.o Jeeee-sus—”
Eenie blinked and showed the whites of her eyes in one mighty convulsion of shock, then grabbed her butcher knife. “One step, nigger, en foh-Gawd I’ll slit you fum yere to yere.” Her knife cut beautiful, precise half circles out of the air as she moved closer to him. “I calls on my Saviour to witness—dat enough enough.”
In answer Big Henry flourished the heavy skillet close to her face and suggestively down toward her buttocks, as if it had been a palm leaf fan.
Sweat poured from both faces. The day was as hot as any that a hot August could bring forth. Eenie in her exasperation at Henry’s slothfulness had piled on more and more wood until her big iron range was red hot. Steam coiled from her vegetable pots, the lids jiggled up and down in staccato urgency. Spurts of steam gushed from the hot water faucet, the tank behind the stove groaned and crackled with the pressure of increased heat, and now a smell of burning bread thickened the air. Unmindful, the two enemies glared and pranced at each other.
The door from the dining room swung silently open. Mrs. Deen, immaculate in white linen, her cool composed face half shadowed by the large white hat, stood unobserved, and watched her servants. Like raging beasts they stalked each other around the room, big mouths half open, breathing hard, eyes reddened by heat and hate.
“Eenie,” quiet and cold the voice, “your bread is burning.”
Slowly the knife and skillet descended. Slowly the enemies assumed a decorous position of limb. The voice went on. “Turn the damper, the stove is too hot. You’ll burn the place up. Your kitchen is sweltering. Henry, your table isn’t set It is late.”
“Yas’m,” Eenie murmured and waddled to her stove.
“Yas’m,” Henry murmured, “hit won’t take me mo’n a minute.” He grabbed the silver tray.
Mrs. Deen closed the door behind her.
