Strange Fruit, page 26
At breakfast, as she served these white folks, as she passed hot biscuits from one to another of the Harris family and their preacher visitor, she listened to their talk; but no word of it touched the Deen family. No word of it touched the night and its dead. They said they had had a good service last night. Somebody said politely that five more had been converted and seven had joined the church. And Preacher Dunwoodie said, “Yes, praise God, it is a good meeting! Maxwell is still on the side of the Lord.”
And then they were quiet, as the Harrises always were quiet until they had had their first cup of coffee. And she stood near the sideboard, watching them, watching the sun creep across Mrs. Harris’s gray hair as it did every morning in summertime, looking at her color and her dark eyes to see if this would be a good day for her mistress.
Preacher Dunwoodie asked for another cup of coffee, and as she handed it to him he said, and smiled at the others around the table as he said it, “Some day Tracy Deen may surprise his home town by turning preacher. That boy has in his eyes the look of one called to preach Christ’s gospel.” And Dessie dropped the cup, spilling coffee across the tablecloth and on the rug and across the sleeve of Brother Dunwoodie’s coat. She ran to the sideboard for a clean napkin and sopped up the dampness from his coat, and she could hear herself breathing hard, while the family looked at each other and at her, half smiling. Her folks was good folks and never got you for things.
“It’s all right,” he said in a kind voice. “It’s all right, Dessie.”
He was a good man too, Preacher Dunwoodie, even if he et enough for two farm han’s. But she was trembling so, she could hardly pick up the pieces of the cup and take them to the kitchen.
All morning she kept shaking like her old Granma, who had the palsy bad; and after the family left for church, after the big house with its wide dim verandas and its high dim rooms grew quiet and still, she crept about dusting and straightening, and every once in a while she’d sit down on a piece of the parlor furniture because her legs felt queer and weak. It was cool in here and shadowy, and you could almost believe nothing bad ever had happened in the world, as you walked about with your dusting cloth flicking the dust from settee and mantel-piece and piano stool … that everything was a bad dream, except the deep softness of the rug and the smooth pretty glow in the furniture and the shine of the mirror in the dusky light.
She softly tiptoed to the mantel and looked at herself in the mirror. “You is sinned,” she told the brown face staring sadly back at her. “Miz Deen thought you was a good girl,” she whispered to mournful eyes, “and you ain’t. And you is brung all dis bad thing on yoself.” She stood there looking at herself, feeling that her pain was just and sent by God, pleasuring vaguely in her penitence. And then suddenly she whirled around, for it was as if back of her own face reflected in the mirror she had seen something else—the whole white race staring back at her. And she was afraid as never in her life she had been afraid. Granma had looked after her, and then Mrs. Harris had looked after her. Good folks had always taken care of her. You knew there was white folks like Miss Belle who made you want to frash yo lips at um, but there was plenty colored folks you never had no use for either. You knew white boss sometimes killed a farmhand, but you’d always thought it was a bad man, even if he was white, who’d do a thing like dat. Things like dat was like the stink from privies. You never paid no mind to it and never noticed it cept on hot damp days, and then you never noticed it for long. But now hit ain little things like some’n stinkin in a privy, hit’s a whole world! Hit’s being black … hit’s jes bein black! She stood there in the room, holding her dusting cloth. Slowly she laid it down and looked at her hand and at the brown of her arm. She touched her skin as if she had never seen it before. Ef dey wants to be good to you like the Harrises, dey is—ef dey don want to, dey ain’t. You don have nothing tall to do wid it. You jes waits … you waits … and ef you gits in deh way … Jesus … dey’ll—
Aunt Susan called her to come set the table for dinner, and Dessie hurried away from the parlor that now held such bitter knowledge, and choking with the taste of it she ran into Susan’s bright hot kitchen, filled with smells of browning chicken and keen fragrance of fresh sliced cucumber. She ran to Susan, who turned around from the stove, her big long fork still in her hand and the sweat streaming from her face, and said, “What you runnin from, Dessie? You’ll shake de dishes off’n dat wall wif all dat scamperin around!”
And Dessie knew she couldn’t talk to Aunt Susan about it. She couldn’t begin to talk to her, for how could you tell her you had been with Henry all night long, how could you tell her that? Aunt Susan would think a bad girl like you wouldn’t be tellin the truf bout nothin—she’d think now that maybe Henry had did it—
And Dessie began to see that sometimes folks line up by color and sometimes they line up by other things—like sins, and who is good to them, and where they work.
“You better hurry, chile, an git dat table sot.”
Dessie hurried and set the table, and when she heard Miss Jane’s car, after the others had come home, she rang the big dinner bell.
The Harris family gathered slowly. They were big talkers, as Dessie knew, but she had never heard them talk so much and in such hushed tones as they were using now in the wide hall which served them oftener for living room than did the double parlors. Her hand trembled as she poured the ice tea. They’ve found im sho … somebody’s found im …
And now, as they entered the dining room, abruptly they hushed their talk. Mrs. Harris murmured, “Brother Dunwoodie, will you return thanks?” Dessie stepped back respectfully, slipping her other hand under the ice-cold pitcher, bowed her head. The family bowed their heads. Brother Dunwoodie raised both hands:
“For these and all thy manifold blessings to this good family we thank Thee, most Heavenly Father.” He paused, went on, “We beseech Thee now to gather under the folds of Thy tender compassion our dear friends down the street, so deeply troubled today by the sudden death of their son. Comfort them, Our Father, in this their great tribulation. And may they find peace in the blessed assurance that through the mercies of Jesus Christ, Thy only begotten Son, his sins had been forgiven him, and he had been accorded salvation in Thee before Thou called him to his everlasting—”
Dessie dropped the pitcher.
“—reward. Amen.”
Dessie stooped quickly to pick up the fragments and to hide her shame.
“Hot day to spill the tea,” Charlie said, and smiled.
“Yassuh. I’m gettin more right now.”
She dashed from the room, dashed back, mopped up the floor, hurried again to the kitchen and back with another pitcher of tea.
But the others had hardly noticed her. And no one seemed to want to eat Aunt Susan’s good fried chicken or the roasting ears or the sliced cucumbers—not even the preacher. Even the preacher was quiet, when most time preachers talk, pulpit or no pulpit.
Harriet said, “It makes you feel—as we felt about Clem.”
Someone said, “Clem Massey, Brother Dunwoodie, is Miss Julia’s brother. Four years ago, he killed a man.” And then they grew quiet, and Dessie knew all the Harrises were thinking about Miss Julia and her brother Clem—who’d about ruined her with his wicked ways, as everybody in Maxwell said—and him now in the penitentiary. Miss Julia stayed in the big house on the edge of town alone. Sometimes you’d see her walking out in the woods, and if you didn’t know she was born and brought up in Maxwell you’d think she had lost her way and didn’t know where to turn next.
Harriet said, “Mother, we must phone to Jacksonville for the flowers.” And Mary said, “Don’t get carnations. I can’t bear them!” and smiled at everybody in her sweet pretty blue-eyed way.
Mrs. Harris served Mr. Harris’s plate. “Put it on the stove, Dessie, until he comes. Charlie”—she looked up at her son, who was not eating much either—”don’t you think maybe you should go over now to the Deens’ and let your father come to his dinner?”
And then everybody left the table, having no more than tasted their ice cream; even Miss Jane who liked ice cream better than anything, Dessie knew, didn’t touch hers, feeling sorry, she reckoned, for Miss Laura and Miz Deen.
Everybody left the table but Mrs. Harris. Sometimes she sat like this at the table after the others had gone. Sometimes while Mr. Harris ate a late dinner. Sometimes by herself. She’d sit there, making little marks in the tablecloth with her spoon or her finger. And Dessie would clear the table as quiet as a mouse and never say a word, and all would be so still in that oak-paneled dining room, and so still in Mrs. Harris’s face. Until, after a long while, she would look up and smile at Dessie and Dessie would smile back at this lady who was always so good to her. But today she did not smile or even look at her, and Dessie felt that she had been pushed out of Mrs. Harris’s world. She’d stole a dress and laid out all night with Henry, and Mrs. Harris knowed it for sho. And now they’d git im—all because she—
Dessie tripped on the rug and dropped two glasses.
“Dessie! That’s the fifth dish you’ve broken today. What am I going to do with you, so careless a child!”
“Ya’m,” Dessie said, and began to cry.
“I know you didn’t mean to,” Mrs. Harris added hastily, as Dessie’s sobs filled the room, “but I want you to learn to be careful.”
“I knows I done wrong,” Dessie said, and began to sob hysterically; “I knows I done awful wrong.”
She suddenly went up to Mrs. Harris and stood before her, her hands wrapping her apron into a hard knot. Maybe if she confessed her sin quick, maybe Gawd wouldn’t let nothin git Henry. Hit must all be her fault and—”Miz Harris, I’ve sinned bad. I done some’n awful—”
“Breaking dishes isn’t sinning, Dessie. I didn’t mean to make you think that.”
“But I’ve sinned bad, Miz Harris. I ain no count, I—”
Mrs. Harris laid down the spoon and looked at the crying girl. “Maybe the work’s too heavy. It is a big house to keep clean, and you’re young—I keep forgetting how young you are.”
“No mam,” Dessie’s sobs began afresh. “You oughta seen me, mam, in da kentry. Us has to chop all day long in da brilin sun—”
“We,” corrected Mrs. Harris.
“We, all day long—in da brilin sun. I’s used to hard work. Tain’t too heavy. Hit’s a fine job,” she smiled through her tears, while from her nose two streams dripped unnoticed over her mouth, “and I’m much obleeged to you, mam.”
“Here,” Mrs. Harris said hurriedly, “take this handkerchief and wipe your nose, and now go in the bathroom and wash your face, and then I’m going to give you some sulphur and cream of tartar. I know you are going to be sick.”
Mrs. Harris found an old clean towel and gave it to Dessie, then went to her medicine cabinet.
Dessie sighed.
Meekly she opened her mouth and took a big spoonful of the dry mixture. She felt herself choking, but swallowed hard, and little by little she worked up enough saliva to wash it down.
“Now, Dessie,” said Mrs. Harris, “when have your bowels moved?”
Dessie blinked at her questioner.
“When have you—been to the toilet?”
“Oh, no’m, I ain’t used yourn. You tole me never to do dat. I runs to da privy in da back yard.”
“Yes, I know. But did you have an action today?”
“Action?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Harris urged, “a bowel action.”
Dessie looked solemnly at her questioner, then slow comprehension lighted her face.
“Yes’m, I is,” she said, “but us calls it—”
“We,” corrected Mrs. Harris, mechanically.
“We calls it—” she began again and suddenly paused, remembering that you don’t speak of such things to white ladies. She put her hand over her mouth and smiled shame-facedly. “I does think talkin,” she said, “is da confusinest thing!”
“Dessie,” Mrs. Harris said slowly, as if she had not heard, “someone killed Mr. Tracy Deen last night.”
Dessie swallowed hard.
“And no one has any idea who did it.” Dessie did not move. “Nor why.” After a moment Mrs. Harris went on. “It is strange to think that in your home town, where you know—everybody, the son of one of your friends could be killed, like this. Sometimes,” her voice had grown low, and Dessie knew she wasn’t talking to her now, “I almost lose courage to try to bring up four sons, decently … You try … but …” She stared far away, her eyes black, black. “Strange to think that—in this town where we all live together, someone knows—”
“Miz Harris,” Dessie’s voice was trembling, “please mam, won’t you read to me a little from da Bible? I ain’t feelin so good.”
TWENTY
It was past four o’clock before Miss Sadie could get to her usual afternoon visit with her friend Belle, for the switchboard had been chattering like a nervous woman since word of Tracy Deen’s death was brought to town.
She plugged in Belle’s number, loosened the black disks over her ears, pushed up her pompadour from her damp forehead and briefly began to answer Belle’s questions, knowing full well that Belle had been at the morning service and already knew all there was to know.
“Yes, he was shot through the stomach … Yes, he must have bled badly … Yes, of course somebody shot him, no doubt about that … No, no one thought it suicide … Must have been near eleven o’clock when the Jenkins boys found him … What? … They were out in the palmettos looking for a shoat … No, it couldn’t have been earlier … Well, it took time. He walked in to town and told Lem Taylor who had to find his wife before he could leave the jail … No, you can’t just walk off and leave a jail … Somebody said she was over with old Mrs. Jones and … Well, anyway, he thought he had to find her … Then when Lem got downtown he told the boys, and they had to figure out how to break the news to the family when they were at church. That made it harder … Well, you know you wouldn’t want to burst in and announce it right in church. You’d have to think how … It all took time—things do—”
“Yes, I know they do,” said Belle, “but, Sadie, I just don’t see how anybody would want to kill a sweet-mannered boy like Tracy Deen! I just don’t. Many a time, many a time,” Miss Belle mourned, “I’ve been downtown hot and tired and ready to drop in my tracks and I’d meet Tracy and he’d say, ‘Come in the drugstore, Miss Belle, and have a coke with me. You look hot,’ he’d say, and smile so sweet. Now, he didn’t have to do that, did he? Not really, I mean, did he?”
“No,” said Sadie, “he didn’t have to do that.”
“Well,” Miss Belle said, “I don’t see how anybody could be so cold-blooded and low-down as to have killed him, as sweet-mannered as he is—I just don’t see how anybody could even—”
It was a hot afternoon and the board had been as trying today as ever in Sadie’s long experience. “He’s dead, Belle, whether you see it or not, and somebody must have held the pistol that shot him.”
“Why, Sadie! I never knew you to be so cross!”
“Sorry, Belle, it’s been a bad day. I’m sorry if I seem cross.” Miss Sadie looked out of the window, wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. It was a hot day; the thermometer down in front of Brown’s Hardware Store had crawled to 101 when she went home for dinner, and so close to the roof up here it must be a lot hotter. She wiped her mouth and went on with the afternoon news. “They’re singing over at the tent, and it’s real sweet. Children’s services always seem real sweet some way.”
“What they singing, Sadie?”
“Bringing in the Sheaves—you can hear the words plain from here.”
“I don’t believe you could hear the words, Sadie. It must be the tune you hear.”
“Well, maybe it’s the tune—There goes Nonnie Anderson now towards the tent, taking Boysie Brown. I do think Mrs. Brown does the right thing to treat Boysie like a normal child, letting him get with other children and—”
“Maybe so,” Belle agreed doubtfully. “He don’t look normal though, with that big head, and the other children must think something—”
“Belle,” Sadie interposed quickly. “Mr. Stephenson wired Mrs. Stephenson to come to Atlanta tonight.”
“You don’t say! What you reckon she’s going to Atlanta for, and the meeting on?”
“Well, I didn’t ask her,” Sadie said. “Just let Mr. Hoke give her the message.”
“Now, I wonder why she’s—did she seem worried or anything?”
“No. She told Mr. Hoke to wire back that she and Grace would leave on the Nine O’clock tonight.”
“Sadie,” Miss Belle’s voice had grown mournful again, “do you really think Tracy was saved?”
“I suppose so. At least I prefer to think that he was.”
“I doubt it,” Belle said, “I seriously doubt that he was.”
“Well,” said Sadie, “it’s at least in the hands of God, not ours.”
“You are cross today, Sadie! You needn’t say you aren’t.”
“They’re embalming the body now,” Sadie returned to safe facts. “They telephoned to Valdosta for a coffin—The undertaker should have got here by this time.”
“What kind of casket are they getting, Sadie?”
“They decided on gray, very plain and terribly expensive. And they’re getting a steel vault.”
“I’m so glad they are! Of course, they cost a terrible lot, but you feel so much better about somebody you love in a steel—”
“All seems a sin to me, to spend so much. I—”
“It wouldn’t if you lost somebody you loved—When is the funeral to be?”
“Tomorrow morning. They think it best under the circumstances not—”
“Yes,” said Miss Belle, “you can understand their attitude, of course, the meeting being on and all—But to me it seems plumb—it is plumb indecent not to let a body get cold, so to speak, before putting it in the ground! I may be old-fash—”
