Strange Fruit, page 22
FOURTEEN
Eddie watched the meeting. Night after night he came and watched the meeting. As you’d see the boys around town watch the screened box at Rainey’s market, where sometimes there’d be a captured coon, or a rattler coiled in the corner, or some rabbits. You’d stand there and watch the animal, maybe feed it something. Maybe just watch. Not thinking much. Not feeling much.
And sometimes Ed didn’t feel, didn’t think, then sometimes he felt what he believed the white folks were feeling. Or most of them. Something you felt against your mind. Against all you knew. Against all you believed. Yet, there it was.
White girls from College Street seemed to feel it too. You watched them to see. They made you curious. You’d always wanted to know a white girl. You knew their brothers, you’d played with them as kids, sometimes gone fishing. But you never knew a white girl. You’d have to be a house boy, or cook or gardener, to know a nice white girl in Maxwell. And even to know the whores in the hotels you’d better be a bellboy.
In the middle of the congregation, close to the aisle, sat Tracy Deen. They said he had joined the church. That he joined Sunday. They said he was getting married to that Pusey girl. By his side she sat there now, pushed up close to him, kind of cuddling in public, as some little women do. She was looking up at him every few minutes and smiling. And Deen smiled back, as if he meant it. As if he meant it.
Ed suddenly felt hungry. Starved. As if he had not eaten since coming to Maxwell. He felt good. He’d go home tonight and sleep. He’d eat and then he’d sleep.
He turned away from the tent opening, went across the business section of town to Salamander’s.
The café was crowded. “Stinks like the devil,” he muttered, as he pushed through to a table in the rear, where a back window cooled a small area of the room.
He waited a long time without catching Salamander’s attention. Old man slow, getting deaf. Needed somebody to help him with the place. Go over and tell him what you want. Or maybe stand and whistle at him—
A voice lifted above the roar of the crowd—“Let a big boy in, you!” Henry McIntosh strode into the room. Wide shoulders pushed aside the human impediment in his path, hands slapped a bill on the counter, big mouth bellowed, “Give me food, old man!”
“Look at im! He done broke open the Nashnal Bank, sho. Where’d yo git ten bucks, boy?”
“Ten?” Henry laughed, deep in his belly. “Look here man. Look here!” And Henry waved a wad of bills above the shining sweaty black faces. “Ever see a hundred bucks?”
“My Gawd, no!”
“An don aim to,” another voice yelled, “hit’d kill me sho to look at um—”
“Don worry—ain no chanct of yo dying fum dat.” Another voice laughed. “Dat ain a way none of us’ll die. Ain none of us’ll die dat sweet … no … baby!”
“Count um, boy, while our moufs waters,” Bill Brown’s feminine voice piped high above the others.
“Sho, count um!”
“Betcha dey’s countfitten,” a skeptic muttered.
“Betcha he robbed old Miss Jones of her pappy’s trunk. Ma uster say hit was full of confedit bills, and dey ain worth spit—”
Eddie sat down. Might as well wait Looked as if they had old big mouth gnawing on the wrong bone this time. Ed smiled. Felt good to smile and mean it. To sit here like this, waiting for a cup of coffee and wanting it when it came.
“Spit—well, git dat spit outen yo own eye and maybe you can see,” and Henry slouched over and held a bill close to the speaker’s face. “How dat, huh, how dat?”
“Hit’s good as Jesus,” the awestruck voice whispered. For a moment there was reverent silence as the stilled room worshiped this vision of actual wealth.
But soon—
“You gon set us up, sho, ain’t you, Henry?”
“Sho. Fill um up. Salamander! Fill um all up.” Henry was near about busting with hospitality.
“How come you got um, Henry?”
“Wherever dey comes fum, he got um all. No use to pry aroun lookin fo scraps, is deah, Henry?”
“Ain none lef aroun nowheres, is dey, Henry?”
Henry smiled, swelled like a toad. “Not a scrap.”
“I knows how he got um—” Every head turned toward Little Gabe, who until now had sat on the counter in silence. “He go up to Mr. Hah’is down at da mill. And he say, ‘Mr. Hah’is, you makes a sight of money outen dis here sawmill, acuttin all dem million feet of lumber, and wif dem barrels of tuhpentine asetting out deah, gwine up to Savanny ever week, don’t yo?’ And Mr. Hah’is say, ‘Sho boy. I makes a mighty lot of money. What kin I do fuh yo?’ And den Henry say, ‘Well, Boss, kin yo let me hev a hundred bucks till Saddy night? I plum run outa change and I needs a liddle snuff fuh ma old woman and a new automobile and a few other liddle things …’” Gabe was at his lifetime role of storytelling, and the crowd, mouths open, eyes on his face, were following every word in contented identification. “And den Mr. Hah’is he retches in his pocket and pulls out a roll of bills and wets his finger and counts off a hundard and say, ‘Reckon a hundard’ll do, Henry?’ an Henry say—”
Henry said, in half-drunken loyalty, “Dis money come fum da Deen family. I works for the Deens. I don work at no sawmill fo no Hah’is white man. I’se de Deen’s houseboy …”
“Sho. Hit’s a liddle extry they thowed in fo good measure dis week—dat it, ain’t it, buddy?”
Henry’s lips swelled out, as Henry’s liquor swelled his loyalty. Muttering stubbornly now, “Tracy Deen give me dis money.”
“Ain’t yo birfday, is it, Henry?”
“Tracy Deen give me—”
“No hit’s Christmus,” somebody guffawed.
“Trac—”
“Christmas gif, Henry,” everybody was yelling now.
“Sho, Christmus gif,” piped Bill Brown.
Into Henry’s muddled brain entered the necessity to defend his dignity, and his employers. He slowly wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and faced the crowd. “All right, smartcats. Put dis in yo bellies and watch um swell and bust. Mr. Tracy Deen done gimme dis money cause he and me, we friens, an we’se made a bargain.”
“What kind of bargain?”
Henry turned to the counter, swallowed the remainder of his third cup of whisky. “Hit’s a private bargain,” he giggled drunkenly, “about a girl.” Rolling his eyes now, trying to leer.
“What girl?”
Henry rolling eyes now. “Oh, jes a girl. Hit’s a secret!” he giggled.
“What girl? Come on—what girl?”
“Jus a purty girl what he done got into trouble.”
Ed sat up as if a knife had been shoved through him.
“What’s yo bargain?” Bill piped hungrily.
“I’m to marry her.” Henry laughed. “Yeah man, he give me a hundred bucks, and dis big boy gwine to marry Nonnie Anderson to—”
They tried to stop him, for someone had seen Ed, but it was no use. It was no use to do anything but back out of the way as brown man came striding across the little room to black man, brown man’s face like the wrath of God. “You goddam son of a bitch,” breath sucking in and out in great sobs, “you damned black nigger—” Ed drove into Henry’s jaw, once, twice. Henry, off his guard and utterly dum-founded to see Ed Anderson standing before him, stumbled back, hit the side of the counter and fell to the floor.
Ed turned away from the still man, stumbled out of the café. He had no more time to waste on Henry McIntosh. No more time to waste on niggers. Only Tracy Deen’s face could he see, only Deen’s slow, tired, sarcastic voice rang in his ears—
His breath came in short dry gasps as he ran across the street and into the alley. Behind the Supply Store he paused, leaned against the back door, tried to breathe. Blood pounded in his head, blinded him, and for a time all words were lost in his mind, drowned by simple physical sickness.
Four blocks away, across the deserted business streets of Maxwell, Preacher Dunwoodie’s voice struck out at his congregation, rising, falling, like a great hammer beating against the town’s conscience: “Repent … day of judgment … at hand … God … great mercy … one more chance … Turn aside … deaf to his pleading … How long … God’s patience … endure … you … secret sins … you hiding behind … social position … pillars … church … yes, you … God sees … your heart … some … last chance … No more … will Jesus … your way … too fate … too …”
But Ed’s ears were filled now with another white man’s words, another white man’s face … hundred dollars … you marry her … make her … you marry her …
He turned and recrossed the street, turned down Back Street, walked swiftly across the ball ground, past the cemetery, to his home. The house was dark. Nonnie and Bess were at the Livingstons’, he remembered now.
Nonnie … he paused on the steps. It was as if she stood there before him, smiling at him, poised and gentle. So proud he’d been of her—he’d never seen a woman who could touch her. And now they’d made a whore out of her—thrown her out like garbage to a stinking lecherous low-down—
Ed’s breath broke into sobs as he stood there on the steps. A decent educated Negro—her own kind—wasn’t good enough for her! No! No! She had to have a white man, a damned no-count white—
Ed sat down on the steps and buried his face in his hands. White man filled his mind. White man scrouged his soul. White man—
Singing across town stopped.
She had to … she had to have … she …
Ed’s breathing grew quiet. Sitting there on the step he felt quiet. He knew now. It was curious, after the aching trouble of the past week. Curious and pleasant to know just what you had to do.
Words chanting through his mind, again, again, again, again, hurting, had inexplicably changed into new words, bringing peace. Beating against him now until all his body sang them: He’s got to die for this—he’s got to die—he’s got to die—
In ancient rhythm his body swung with the old, old song.
Ed wiped his face, went upstairs to his room, fumbled around in his suitcase until he found what he wanted, walked downstairs.
As the screen door banged after him, he whispered, “She’ll be sorry—” but they were words that his ears did not hear.
FIFTEEN
The Anderson girls stood up to leave. Bess laid the Spelman College catalog on the table, laughed as she said, “We’ve talked about teachers, courses, the place, and told you what clothes you will need. When you get there you’ll both think every single thing we’ve said was wrong.”
Each Livingston twin drew in a deep breath. The vivacious pretty one said, “You’ve been wonderful to us,” and smoothed back her hair in imitation of Bess. And the quiet one smiled at Bess and turned and smiled at Non, and went over and slipped her arm around her mother.
“Is it worth it, Bess?” Roseanna Livingston said, her eyes filling as she tried to smile easily.
The Anderson girls were silent.
There stood Roseanna Livingston, Colored Maxwell’s clubwoman, Colored Maxwell’s leader of its church and social affairs, Colored Maxwell’s delegate to the Lodge’s auxiliary, Maxwell’s brown replica of the full-bosomed, pompous, full-mouthed clubwoman you’d see on College Street in any town of Georgia. Roseanna, weaving her hands and her words together in flowery speeches, speaking a little familiarly to white women’s faces, tossing her head in scorn behind their backs, bending her efforts to make herself an exact copy of them—now gentled by what lay ahead of her two girls on a path which seemed to them beautiful and straight, leading on forever and ever to an exciting wonderful life where everything was going to be so … different. And somehow so right.
And there in that little parlor, lighted by a big kerosene lamp swinging from the ceiling, stood Preacher Livingston, who preached the Gospel on Sundays in the A.M.E. Church in his sleazy black Prince Albert coat, and on Mondays and other days did a sleazy insurance business in a room over the Pressing Club. There were the Livingstons and their twin daughters standing in the lamplight; back of the girls the reed organ; back of the preacher a round table covered with red velvet with a big Bible on it; back of Roseanna a whole life of getting ready to make her twins into ladies.
“Yes,” said Bess harshly, “yes, it’s worth it! Everything you have to go through now … and afterward.” And they stood there, looking at each other, or at nothing. All of them, in the Livingston parlor. Until the Reverend Livingston said, “The lamp’s smoking. Always the lamps in this house smoke!” And one of the twins climbed up in a chair and turned the wick down, and everyone tried to laugh a little.
Then they went home, silent. At the door Bess said almost gently, “I know it’s no use for me to say it but—if you’d go to bed now, Non … You look so terribly tired.”
“Not quite yet,” Non said.
She sat down on the steps. Feeling a little tired. Yes, a little.
The singing had stopped long before they left the Livingstons’. He might come. Not last night, nor late Saturday night. But maybe tonight. And they’d go to the top of the sand ridge where they could be alone and quiet, and maybe there, with just the warm wind stirring and the stars and the little scrub-oak trees back of them, maybe she could help him find the way back …
And then she looked up, and there he was at the gate.
She ran down to meet him.
“Hello,” he said, and stood there, not opening the gate.
“Hello.”
“Non,” he said, not opening the gate. “Non, I’ve come to tell you—” he stopped.
“Yes, Tracy.”
“Guess you heard I’d joined the church.”
She nodded.
“Well,” he laughed a little self-consciously, “I meant it. I mean—it wasn’t just something I did, as a matter of form. Like some people.” He took out his handkerchief, wiped his face. “I’ve never felt like this before—” he stopped again.
“As I see it,” his voice had grown a little strident, “my whole life’s been wrong. All wrong!”
“Wrong?”
“Yeah. Things like—” he was not looking at her. “Like this, for instance. I’ve been weighed down all my life by a sense of—well, I reckon you’d call it sin, maybe. Or something. I’ve changed, Nonnie, don’t know how to tell you … Oh, I know so-called respectable men keep on doing things like—” he stopped.
“Like—” just a whisper.
“Like this—you know what I mean … Like—But I’m through! If I’m going straight, gotta go straight. Can’t do it half way. Thought once—thought maybe I could—but I see it different now. Yesterday I joined the church and I meant it. Brother Dunwoodie’s done—I know I laughed at him … other people have too, and then gone on their knees … Tell you, the man gets you. Never heard anybody who could make me feel so like a skunk, listening to him—The way I’d been living—way I’ve always done the family … Mother … ruining her whole—Made me realize time comes when a man must face things—see what he’s doing to other people—”
It seemed the words would never stop.
“Only of course you’re not like … some—there’s—” He seemed to be searching her, the whole of her, though his eyes had not once looked her way.
Nonnie didn’t breathe as she watched his face.
“… something he wouldn’t … understand … about you …”
Her hands pressed together until the bones ached.
“I … Oh well—” he stopped. Went on, “Mother’s so glad, it’s kind of—you see, I’ve always failed them. Always managed somehow to do the wrong thing—There’s Dorothy … Nobody thinks I’ve been decent to her—and I haven’t. Been pretty yellow, I guess, but—well, to cut it short—” He drew in a deep breath. “Today I gave Dorothy a ring. We’re to be married in the fall. That means—it may sound funny after all you know of me, but I’d like to go to Dorothy with my hands clean. You—you’ve lots of sense—you can understand that, can’t you, Nonnie?”
Nonnie tried to say something, anything. No words would come. It was as if all her life, all memory of life had been rammed down her throat so hard that she couldn’t get her breath.
“About the baby,” his voice was very low now, “I’ve fixed that.”
He seemed to be waiting for her to say something.
“Fixed?” her voice could not break through a whisper.
“I’ve been a fool to get you in trouble like this. To tell you the honest truth I thought—you’d—know—how not to—having gone off to college—and everything—” He broke off suddenly, looked straight at her. She hoped for one wild exquisite moment that he was drunk again, he looked so strange, wetting his lips again and again as he talked, as if he were saying a speech which he didn’t know the meaning of—
“But never mind,” he picked up his words again, “we can’t cry over that—now. Thing to do now is to save you from being talked—I’ve got it arranged.”
“Arranged?”
“Yes. You see I’d never leave you high and dry, to face that—you know that—so—What’s the matter?”
Nonnie shook her head.
“You look sick … What’s …”
“I’m all right,” she whispered.
“So I thought of Henry. He’d do anything for me, the old fool,” he half laughed, “and he’s worshiped the ground you’ve walked on since you were knee high to a duck. I—well, I told him about it—your condition—and he said he’d be glad to—give you the protection of a name and—”
Nonnie heard no more. She was seeing Big Henry, she was breathing his sweating stench, she was looking at his big open mouth with its upper gold teeth, feeling his hot breath on her lips, her ears rang with his deep-bellied laugh, her thigh felt his wide gripping fingers. She was remembering when she was eleven. He had met up with her on the way from school and said, swinging his books back and forth across his shoulders as he said it, “Say,” he said and grinned, “say, how about fuckin with me?” And as she stared the color had beat through her face and neck. “You knows,” he grinned, “fuckin,” and opened his pants. She had begun to run and he had run close behind her saying, “Say, what’s the matter? You skeered?” Suddenly she had turned on him and whispered, not able to speak out loud, “Don’t you come near me, don’t you come near me!” and had begun to cry and run faster and faster toward the old empty house. “Shucks,” he called after her, “whassa matter wif you? Even white gals does dat.” Her mother had said that night when the miserable tale was told, “You has seen folks with lice in they haids, honey, and there’s plenty of um, God knows, in this neighborhood, but it’s their lousy minds I want you to hate, baby girl, and they ain’t all black … Hate um, white or black … hate um … hate um …” The words attached themselves to a revival tune now and began coiling, uncoiling, coiling in her mind.
