Strange Fruit, page 28
It was past three o’clock when Mr. Hoke called with a telegram, and after receiving it Mrs. Stephenson seemed not to be looking any more. She told Bess that she and Grace would go to Atlanta on the Nine O’clock, that she wanted her to come every day and look after the two roomers. “Keep their rooms and air the house. You can bring Jackie and let him play in the back yard,” she added, “and take the flowers, as soon as you come tomorrow morning, over to the Deens’. They’ll be in on the train tonight. We’ll be gone some time,” she said, and stared at Bess without seeing her, “so I want you to look after things … Feed the chickens …”
Her mention of Jackie had given Bess the excuse she wanted. She quickly seized it, asked Mrs. Stephenson if she could run home for a little … Jackie had been ailing, a little fever … not much, but it kept her uneasy. She had waited until five o’clock to ask, having fixed her salad for supper and brought the two suitcases down from the storeroom. She had said the wrong thing. For at once Mrs. Stephenson asked her more questions, as though spreading Bess’s small worries over her mind would cover up something which she did not want to see. And as Bess started out, she came into the kitchen and insisted upon making lemonade for Jackie, and made most of it herself, squeezing the lemons slowly—so slowly it seemed to Bess as she watched the juice trickle down those slim pointed fingers—pouring it into her own thermos bottle, asking more about him, telling Bess to take good care of him—she was fond of the little fellow, she said, and Bess must look after him—until Bess was half crazy with impatience. She’d managed to be calm all day—to wait. But now that she knew Sam must be home, she could wait no longer. She had to find out, had to see him, had to talk.
But it looked as if she could not get away from Mrs. Stephenson’s kindness. To get away from Mrs. Stephenson’s kindness was not ever easy. She hedged you in with it, made you prisoner and walled herself from you as the kindnesses mounted. Bess had cooked for Mrs. Stephenson seven years, but she knew about her only that she was kind. She had been kind then—kind since. Always the same. Once last winter a tramp had come to the door. Bess was about to send him away, for they were busy. The Missionary Circle was meeting with them that day and they had chess pies to make for it—and Bess had one of her sick headaches too which the rich odor was not helping. And tramps are no-count white folks anyway; if colored folks can find jobs—and God knows some do—then there’s no excuse for white men being out of work. So she was turning him away when Mrs. Stephenson said, “The side porch is sunny and warm. Go out there and we’ll find something for you to eat. Bess, fix him a sandwich and a cup of coffee.” But her voice had not changed nor had the muscles of her face moved. She was neither irritated nor sorry for him. This was what should be done and therefore was done. You had a queer feeling about it—as if Mrs. Stephenson had died some time when nobody was noticing and now nothing was left of her but good deeds blooming like little flowers on her grave. It had flashed through Bess’s mind, and ever since she had caught herself watching her mistress.
Yet finally she had escaped her, and now she must make haste. It was hot and close. Bess slowed her rapid walk. Already big splotches had soaked through her uniform. She would have to change before supper. She lifted her arm. Smelled to heaven! “Pure nigger smell,” she whispered, whipping herself with her compulsion to see her race through white eyes.
“Yes, nigger,” she whispered as she hurried along Back Street. “It’s caught up with us.” It was as if the Andersons had been running away from it, getting a little whiter and whiter with each generation, running hard. But it’s caught us. As it catches everybody, sooner or later. It’s reached out and caught us. You can run until you’re panting, but it’ll catch you. Going to college won’t help you run any faster—all that stuff they tell you there makes it worse. Be proud of your African heritage, they tell you! Yeah … music … rhythm … all that … Proud! When you’re pushed around through back doors, starved for decent friendliness and respect, they tell you about Benin bronzes—things like that. Sure! When you’re so hurt you feel as if you’re bleeding inside, you’re supposed to remember that some old archeologist or somebody found that way back there in Africa your ancestors could make bronze—sculpture or something. And now you’re supposed to feel fine. See? When all that matters to you or any other Negro is that your folks were slaves and you’re still slaves. You can’t run away from that shadow; whichever direction you turn it turns with you.
She had left the white part of the street and was crossing a patch of gallberry bushes before entering the colored section of town.
God knows, Eddie’s a fool—always making you lose your temper. But he wouldn’t have killed a man had it not been for his color. No. He’d have found some other way to let out his spoiledness. It wouldn’t have been killing. Too tender-hearted as a kid to hurt a bug without whimpering.
And suddenly Bess was crying a little, for now she saw what lay ahead of Ed—even if he were safe, if he escaped, he’d still have to come back in his mind and look at that white man he’d killed. Sooner or later he would have to do that, and when he did, when he made that journey back, something would happen inside him and it wouldn’t be good. No. God knows she didn’t care about the white man being dead. She was glad. Yes, she was! Glad! But you care what happens inside your brother, even if he is a fool. You care.
She gave a quick sob and hushed for fear some passer-by would notice her.
Reckon Ed had picked up where Pap left off. Always suspecting somebody. Pap was like that. Once when they were children they had been playing in the graveyard, and she had run home to get a bottle to put lightning bugs in. She had just come around the house when she heard Pappy on the veranda saying, “He don look like my kid,” voice heavy as lead, “he don favor—”
Pap in one of his glum spells. And she had drawn back half under the veranda, knowing folks don’t like for children to hear things.
“He’s yo’s,” Tillie had said. “He’s all yo’s. You is like as two peas in a pod. En you bof is gittin hard to live wif!” she’d suddenly added. “Eddie whining all over everywheres sence the baby come, while you is so glum … Hit ain good, Ernie,” she added, “for chudren to be brung up round glumness. Dey need to hear folks laughin. You know dat! A spoonful of grits’ll make a child healthy ef you keep him alaughin while he eats it.”
“Tillie,” he’d said, “I ain found nothin sence I was born dat was worf laughin over.”
She saw Mama walk slowly to the edge of the veranda where Pappy stood, lay her big broad hand on his shoulder, look him straight in the eye. “Dat ain so, Em Anderson.”
“Cep you,” he muttered.
“Cep me … and da chudren.”
“Sometime I near go crazy … thinkin things … How I know dey—Dey don favor me—”
“Em—look at me—look at Tillie! Dey is yo own. You talkin crazy! Crazy! Ever child we got is yo own. En they all the spittin image of you. Mean jes lak you,” she added and laughed. “Mean jes like deh pa.”
But Pappy hadn’t laughed. He went on talking low, as if he had not heard Tillie. “Saddy night … I were in da store … buyin me a plug of tobaccy … back of me … two white men talkin … bout women. I warn’t payin no mind till one spoke … spoke yo name … said—” He paused. Went on, “En I turned en walked out widdout lookin, for I know’d I’d kill um ef I looked … I’d kill um! En I been thinkin ever since I oughta killed um. A man any count woulda kill um for sayin—”
“You knows better. Ernest Anderson, you knows no matter what, you don do nothin, you hear? You don do nothin!”
“Tillie—you ain had no … traffic … wid … white—”
“Hush! I oughta slap you on da mouf—fillin yo mind full of nasness like dat. Worry in yoself crazy. Crazy!”
They both were silent after that. It was so quiet you could hear the others laughing over at the graveyard.
“Ernie,” Mama’s voice was gentle now and soft, “we works so hard—we don—most nights you is dead sleep time I gits shet of my housework Let’s … Ernie … me and you—Let’s go inside … for a little—”
“Hit ain black-dark, Tillie ‘oman, en da chudren—”
“The baby’s sleep and the res of um is over in the graveyard wid Sammie en da others, ketchin lightnin bugs. Dey won’t come tell I calls um in. Let’s go, Ernie.” And Tillie had led the way to her bedroom, followed slowly by Pappy, and somebody had shut the door.
Well, she wasn’t over in the graveyard catching lightning bugs. She was crouched under the edge of the veranda, and she had walked, without knowing where she walked, to the big palmetto clump and flung herself down on her stomach in the sand, and the tears had rolled down her face without her knowing what she was crying about and she had whispered, “No, no, no, no, no,” without knowing what she meant by such words. And when she got up after Mama called, she didn’t want any supper. It was sometime in the night that she had awakened with a headache and sick at her stomach and fearing she would vomit had started outdoors to the privy, not being afraid of the dark. But as she stepped out on the shed, she heard somebody crying a little, and there sat Mama on the back steps.
“Sometime, Jesus,” Ma said low, almost in a whisper, “yo Tillie think hit’s time for you to he’p her a little … he’p her a little … wid things.”
Seven-year-old Bess had slipped back into the house and used the slop jar, and Mama had heard her and had come and put a cold rag on her face and told her, “Shet yo eyes, honey, and Mama tell you bout time her mama made her a brand-new red dress,” and before she finished telling how that red calico dress was bought from a pedlar and cut out and sewed up, Bess was asleep.
Things like this come back to you … keep coming back all your life.
It all seemed Non’s fault somehow! If she’d let that white man alone! It was as if she were hypnotized, not once thinking what it all added up to, just moving along in a world that wasn’t on this earth. Of course Ed suspected! How could he help it? Plain as the nose on your face. Let that white man whistle and she’d be there. Every night at the gate, waiting. And that last night she’d been with him, he’d come so late, calling her in the arbor until Bess had turned sick with fear of Ed’s hearing. She’d lain there listening … hearing Nonnie come softly down the steps, open the door, go outside, hearing his voice, a little loud. Drinking. Yes, you could tell that. And hours passed. Or it seemed like hours.
Bess had crept out to the back shed, and seeing no one in the arbor had sat on the doorsteps, waiting; growing sick and scared and angry as she waited, as minutes piled up into an hour. Or more. And then Nonnie was standing there before her. She must have dozed not to have heard her come up. Standing there. And Bess knew without a word being spoken that Non was hurt.
“He’s hurt you.” Nonnie had not seemed to hear. “Where’re you hurt, Non?”
Nonnie shook her head, sat down on the step. It was the same face, yet not the same. You knew something bad had happened to her and that she’d never tell you. Never in this world tell anybody.
“I don’t care if you hate me the rest of your life,” Bess had said, “you’re going to let me see how bad you’re hurt.” And Nonnie had made no effort to stop her as Bess slipped the blouse off of her shoulders. She’d tried not to show her shock when she saw the bruise on arm and breast. But she heard herself breathing hard as she examined the places. “I’ll get some iodine. Stay here.” And she had run to her room sobbing a little in her fear and anger, trying to be quiet to keep from waking Ed. She’d bathed the places with alcohol, touched them with iodine, whispering, “You need a doctor—you need Sam.” But Nonnie shook her head and Bess knew better this time than to urge. She tried to remember what Mama would have done, what Sam would do, for things like this. She wanted to take Nonnie in her arms—the kid needed somebody to mother her a little now—but she knew if she tried to do it she’d begin to squall at the top of her voice, and God alone knew what Non would do.
“Now,” she’d said instead, “now, that’s much better. I know you’ll feet better soon. You’re bound to. I’m going to get you a little ammonia—” As she turned to go back into the house she grew sick with a new fear. “Non … you’re not—Are you hurt anywhere else? Tell the truth, you’ve got to! Are you?” Non whispered, “No.” She hesitated—praying God that Non said the truth, though knowing she would never tell her—then went in for the ammonia. If she could keep doing things! But she could think of nothing else. After Non drank the ammonia, Bess stood watching her, hoping to see her begin to look better, to see her color come back instead of this gray look. She saw that Non was shaking, and she ran in and heated some water on the oil stove and fixed a bottle and made her put it on her stomach. Everything she did made her feel better, but she was afraid it wasn’t helping Non much. As she watched her, she began to have the feeling that Non could die—not because her body was hurt enough to kill her but because maybe she had no reason for living. She knew it was a crazy idea. She knew whatever happened she’d always want to go on living, but she wasn’t sure Nonnie would. “Let me put you to bed,” she said—as if this simple normal act would somehow hold Non to normal folks’ ways—and leaned over and touched her hair, hoping she would know how sorry she felt for her, for all the times she’d fussed at her. Two slow tears rolled down Nonnie’s face. She shook her head. “If you don’t mind, I want to be alone—a little—”
“Hadn’t you better go to bed?” feeling as she said it that Non did not hear her—as she never heard her, really. And Bess had gone into the house, leaving Nonnie sitting there on the back doorsteps, in the cool early dawn.
That was the last time Non had been with him. As far as she knew. That night. And now he was dead. That white man was dead! She’d tried not to think about Nonnie today—what she was feeling while she nursed Boysie Brown. To think about her at any time was not easy. Your thoughts slid off like oil on glass. There was nothing to catch hold to. You felt Non had done all her growing inside, all her living there, sending out no faults or virtues like most folks whose growth has reached out toward their world; no little mannerisms of voice or body. Just a slender tall girl with skin the color of a rich eggshell, with features that made folks say, “She’s beautiful”—somebody who talked softly, smiled, turned away if you came too near. She was like a quiet vague tune to which each person sets his own words. And you were never sure your words were the right ones.
You did not know how she felt, but of one thing you were sure. Non could not have that baby. They’d have to make her get rid of it. She had to! It was not fair. She had to! And yet as Bess said it over and over to herself she knew Non would not give it up. Non had never fought for things, never reached out and snatched what she wanted from the world, but when it came her way, when it fell into her hands, she held on to it.
When she was six years old, someone gave her a kitten. One evening, as Bess and her mother sat on the porch, Non had taken it in her arms and walked slowly down the road a little way. A passing dog saw the cat, began to bark at it. At first Tillie and Bess were not alarmed, thinking the child would let it go and seek her own safety. But Nonnie, making no cry, only backed away from the dog, gripping her kitten more closely to her. The dog’s barking drew other dogs, and quickly there were six or seven dogs there, barking, jumping up at the cat, each increasing the others’ greed, whipping themselves into a great excitement over one small kitten. Tillie called sharply. “Bess, go to the child!” and Bess ran toward her screaming, “Let it go, Nonnie! Drop it quick!” But Nonnie, pale-faced and tense, only held it more tightly to her as the angry dogs barked and snapped and jumped into her face. She’d taken a big stick and beat the dogs off, while Non stood there, her breath coming in sharp little gasps, the vein beating in her temple, the kitten held tightly to her body. She’d always beaten the dogs off for Nonnie, but this time Non had to—
Here was Sam’s house. And now quickly Bess was in his office and talking to him. He looked as if he had not had time to change his clothes since the trip. As if he might have just come in. His satchel was on the desk. A calendar advertising Horlick’s Malted Milk hung on the wall, and the sunlight now shifted brightly on it. August 21. Yes, August 21. That was today. August 20—that was yesterday. This time yesterday nothing had happened. Or not the worst had happened. It was like stringing beads on a cord. One after another after another. If the cord had broken, or a bead had been dropped or lost—that last bead would not have been strung.
She turned to Sam and looked at him. His brown face was tired, his eyes yellowed and bloodshot, and he needed a shave. But it was Sam. And good to see him.
Briefly he told her of the journey. Ed had made the train in Macon—would soon be in New York. He had warned him not to communicate with them, had given him a friend’s name in New York. The friend would be discreet. Everything should be all right. “How are you?”
“All right. I reckon I am. All this—I’m glad you’re back.”
“You look tired. Headache?”
“No. You look tired yourself. Mrs. Perry glared at me when I came in. Said you needed sleep more than you needed talk.” They both smiled. “I know you do.”
She ought to go now. Sam’s face, so red under the brown usually, was yellow under the brown, and drawn. Her eyes moved over his desk. A prescription pad. A book—Sam didn’t read much. His pipe. An old glass paper weight. An embroidered linen table runner …
“Sam—what’s happened to us? I feel as if it’s the end.”
Sam smiled. “Not quite the end, maybe. I hope not.” They stood there staring past each other.
“Things are bad,” he went on after a moment. “You know I realize how bad. But for the time being Eddie is safe. Later—It won’t be easy—when he begins to see all—he’s done. But if you can just—wait, maybe—” He smiled again and rubbed his hand over his forehead and that portion of his head that was bald.
