Strange Fruit, page 29
“Wait. Yes. Negroes are supposed to know how to do that. It’s got me—I ought to let you sleep, and I need to get back to my work. But—last night—it—I couldn’t look at Non. We went home. I didn’t try to go to bed. I got rid of Eddie’s things—thought it best to. I burned them.”
Sam nodded. “I hoped you’d think to do it.”
“I happened to open the closet in Mama’s room for something, and there on the nail was Pap’s overalls. One strap off the nail—you remember how it always fell off his shoulder that way.” She tried to smile. “Hanging there. Fifteen years hanging there—a pair of overalls—all that was left. Work. He’d come home after work and sit at the table, glum, while Mama fixed supper … Always nagging at Eddie, picking on him … We hated him, Eddie and me … Glumming up everything … never laughing.”
It’s late, she thought, you got to get back to your supper, it’s late. But she went on talking.
“Last night … looking at those overalls … I began to see him—” Sam looks tired. No sleep. “I burned them too. Afraid they’d find them and think them Eddie’s. Ever since, I’ve—felt—kind of like I burned—Pappy—all there was left of him.” She was trembling a little.
“You’re tired, Bess. When folks get this tired, they have feelings like that—everybody does.”
“And going through things—Eddie always leaves his things all over the house, I was afraid I’d overlook something—I came across—” She swallowed, wondering what had come over her.
Sam put his hand on her shoulder. “Bess, you’re tired. You’ve got to get back to your supper. I want you to talk, but maybe—”
“I know … And you’re tired too. But if you don’t mind, let me say it. It’s—kind of—got on my mind. You see, I found a pair of Mama’s old shoes. That was all, but all at once—” The light from the setting sun was on Sam’s hand now, the one with the scar from the fishhook. “You see, they’d never been people to me before—and all at once standing there, they stepped out right before me, as people, not Mama and Pap. It was just a second, but I saw them so plainly—it’s made me feel … confused … Children aren’t supposed to see their parents quite like that.” She tried to smile. “Sometimes I’m afraid … these headaches … Seems to me I think a lot of—kind of queer thoughts … Could they make me a little crazy, Sam? Could they?”
“You know better than that, Bess.”
She looked at his brown stolid face. She always believed Sam. He couldn’t know much more than she—What made her believe him, like this?
“And somehow, seeing those two things … hurt so. They were so poor, Sam! All their life colored folks so poor … working … Pap and Mama … every livelong day …”
“Bess, you must see the other side. You must It’s not just the Negro—”
“If you tell me white folks are poor too, I’ll—I’ll almost slap you!” She tried to laugh. “We’ve argued it so often! I know they’re poor—I know all over the world people are poor—and work hard—or don’t have any work to work hard at It doesn’t make it a bit easier when it’s your own mother you’re remembering. Going to work early every morning, coming back late at night … All she ever saw that was pretty or bright or soft, things she liked, was in white folks’ houses. I remember she used to talk—All her life she used to talk about some day painting the house white, splashing it ‘befo and behind,’ she’d say—I can still hear her—and getting her some big-size sheets. Yes. She was going to do that when she got us all through school and through college. Well—she didn’t get to do either one—”
“Bess—”
“I can almost see her … coming down the path from Miss Ada’s, that big old straw hat pulled clean down on her head to her ears, her little bundle under her arm … looking quick for Nonnie at the gate … walking slow … on the edge of her feet to ease her bunions—all her life, doing that. And when she was so sick at the last and I’d rub her feet to try to get a little warmth in them, they were so hard and rough, it was like—rubbing a piece of—old wore-out shoe leather …”
She’d said too much. If she looked at Sam now, she’d cry.
He was speaking, his slow way. “It’s strange—way folks remember somebody. My own mother died when I was too little to remember, and I always lived round with kinfolks—until Aunt Easter came down here to keep me straight—” He half smiled. They all remembered the day Aunt Easter had arrived from North Georgia and was waiting with a basket, a trunk and a hoe, for Sam on the porch of his house. She announced as he walked up the steps that she was his aunt, she could prove it—which she promptly did—and had come to take care of him. He had never seen her before, but she had taken good care of him, ever since.
He’s forgot Ella, she thought, he’s forgot all about her.
“But all my life nearly I’ve been going the old road by Miss Ada’s to your house. All my life nearly I’ve been round your mother. With Eddie, when we were boys—all my life. And when I think of her I see her different. I see her reaching out and pulling everybody, everything, the whole world, to her, and sort of nursing it in her big lap—all of it, good and mean, its nastiness and its brightness, drawing it in against her breast. Not gently—she wasn’t gentle—pulling it to her, grimly, maybe, but taking it and giving … what she had. I like to remember that. I like to remember … way she used to laugh until she shook all over, every inch of her … and way she’d turn to us kids right in the midst of her laughing sometimes and say, ‘Mind yo manners, chudren, wid white folks,’ and draw up her mouth tight like you draw up a tobacco pouch.”
“I know. As if any white person was worth our manners!”
“She said it to protect your life. Good manners are still best life insurance a colored person ever took out.” He smiled.
Oh how could he smile! How could he!
“I don’t see how you take things as you do. You’d think there was no feeling in you—no shame for your race—”
“I’m proud to be a Negro, Bess. Proud.”
“Proud! You’re lying. You think that’s the thing to say. Well, it isn’t the thing to say to me! It’s being nigger—nigger, Sam—that’s done this to us. Oh I know Ed’s crazy ways—that temper, his feeling that—I know all that. He couldn’t—Sam,” she looked up at him, “did Ed tell you why he did it?”
“No.”
“Have you any idea?”
“No.”
He’s lying. He knows something.
“Have you heard anything since you got back?”
“No. But then I wouldn’t.”
“They’ve found him.” She could not make herself say Deen’s name.
He looked at her without speaking.
“This morning.”
“I thought as much. They turned me back while ago—I’d started out to see Aunt Cyn. They’d sent in word she was dying.”
“What did Aunt Easter tell them? I’m—she’s old and—”
“Said I was delivering a baby. She always says that.”
“Who turned you back?”
“Some white boys—hardly grown—but I didn’t argue,” Sam smiled quickly.
“Sam, Ed said he left him on the path. They found him in the palmettos, fifty yards from the path.”
“Maybe Ed moved him.”
“He said he didn’t touch him. And I don’t believe he would have. It’s worried me … If they don’t get Ed, they’ll—What’ll they do?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’ll … get somebody else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would we … keep our mouth shut … and let them?”
“Don’t cross that bridge! You’re too tired—Let’s wait, let’s just wait.”
“Sam,” she whispered, “they … wouldn’t dare … get Non?” She hadn’t even thought of it until this minute. She was fighting sudden panic.
His face blazed with something Bess had never seen before, grew as suddenly quiet. He turned to her, spoke irritably, it seemed now to her. “Bess, you must go. You’ve got your supper to get, and I’ve some calls.”
And then she told him. She would never know what made her speak. She simply said it, hearing her words before she knew she was saying them. “There’s something else—Nonnie … she’s pregnant.” She spoke rapidly, did not look at him, wishing now that she hadn’t said it, not today. “We’ve got to do something—make her—it’ll soon be too dangerous—she’s got to have an abortion. You’ll do it, won’t you?”
He did not answer her.
“You’ll do it, won’t you, Sam?” Why did he just stand there as if he had not heard! “She’s so hardheaded!” Suddenly she was angry. Why didn’t he answer her! “Says she wants it. She—We can’t let her have it! You can see that. Anybody could see that. But Nonnie. No. She wants it, therefore—” Bess paused, turned quickly. “Sometimes I wonder if there is something in the Negro—Ed killing, Nonnie pregnant—what’s the matter with us! Is it Negro? Is it Anderson? What is it? What’s the matter with people like us!”
“White women get pregnant—plenty.” His voice was harsh and angry.
“They wouldn’t want it—they’d be too shamed to want it. And I don’t see how any colored woman would want to bring another Negro into this world!”
“Jackie?”
“I didn’t want him. I was young—he just came.” She tried to laugh.
“You love him.”
“Oh, I love him, but I don’t enjoy him!” She added low, “And he’s no bastard. I reckon I’ve made a mess of things. I ought to have managed her better. Even when we were little, Mama was always worrying about Nonnie and boys. Telling me to watch out for her. Never worried about me.” She tried to laugh.
Sam was rubbing his hands together, turned suddenly, looked out of the window.
“Sometimes it’s seemed to me, this is crazy, but it’s seemed to me that Nonnie has never in her life admitted to herself that she is Negro.”
Sam turned, face flushed darkly. “Maybe she’s never thought about it one way or the other.”
“How could she help it! When it’s rubbed in your face like something dirty every day, everywhere you move.”
“There’s more to life than color, Bess. There’s more. Lot more.” He had moved to his desk now, picked up his satchel, put it down.
“Oh, how can you say it! How can we even stand here and say anything—when our color has ruined our lives—yours too. Don’t say it hasn’t! You go around doing good to people. It’s fine for everybody but you. But you know inside you, you want something more. You’d like to be natural and easy and simple. It would be so simple, Sam, to be white. I’m so tired of being two people! Sometimes I get mixed up myself,” she laughed shakily, “and forget which one is me—Mrs. Stephenson’s Bess, or mine.”
“White folks have trouble, Bess.” He half smiled and touched her arm, but his eyes had a terrible look in them.
“I don’t believe it! Oh, I don’t believe it—not like ours.”
“Trouble with themselves and the folks they love. And that’s what’s important to all of us.”
“I don’t want to believe it.”
“You’ve got to feel sorry for them too.”
“I can’t Take my hate of white folks away from me, I’d not have anything left. I’d—crumple up. Makes it a lot easier on Jack, for me to hate them.” She tried to laugh, wiped her eyes instead, suddenly found her chin shaking, turned away, wiped her eyes again, turned back. “Sam, what are we going to do about Nonnie? We can’t wait.”
He looked at her, through her, said slowly, “I would like to marry your sister.”
Marry Nonnie! Marry her after a white man—
Always it had seemed to Bess when things got bad, snagged at her like an old saw, Sam was thinking about her. Always you’d thought, when he came over to talk, he’d come to talk to you. And it wasn’t you he’d come to see—
“After this—would you even—I don’t see how you could after thi—”
“Bess,” his voice was sharp and angry, “there’s something about you that makes a man sick!”
She flushed, said quickly, “I’d better go now. It’s terribly late.” And she had turned and left him standing there with a tight hard look on his face, as if he hated her.
It was time now for supper to be on the table. She’d have to make up something about Jackie being worse than she had thought.
She slipped quietly into the Stephensons’ kitchen, turned the damper on the stove, put in some dry chips, laid a skillet on for her chicken patties, put the kettle over the hot part of the stove, hurried into the dining room with the plates. She had turned to the sideboard to get the silver when she heard Mrs. Stephenson and Grace in the adjoining bedroom.
“Mother, is it bad as—having a baby?”
“No. It won’t be bad.” There was silence now except for footsteps moving back and forth. Then in the same low tone, clear as if long ago strained of feeling, Mrs. Stephenson said, “Grace, is there anybody in this town, besides Mart, who knows?”
“I don’t think so.
Bess quietly picked up the silver, eased over to the table, softly began laying knives and spoons on the right, forks on the left.
TWENTY-TWO
When he’d finished his supper, Tom Harris called Dessie into the parlor and shut the door. She came slowly, a wet dishrag wadded tight in her hand, dragging her feet across the floor as if chained to guilt.
Laura had been to see him and had gone, leaving with him the list of pallbearers and those who had offered to sit up with the body. She’d said, “We’re worried about Henry. Miss Sadie called. She says they’re after him. He didn’t do it of course,” she’d added quickly.
“Maybe he did,” though he knew better.
“No,” Laura spoke as if she knew. “No. He wouldn’t have done it.” She looks a lot like her mother, Tom Harris thought, she looks a lot like her. So sure.
“He’d have no reason for doing it,” she added slowly, her gray eyes looking straight into his, her hand pushing her hair back slowly. She’s about sick from all this, Tom thought, too quiet to be natural.
“There’re others—who’d have more—cause.” She moved her lips as if to say more, stopped. Her hand was by her side now. “Anyway, we wouldn’t want Henry—hurt—even if he did do it. Not by—We’ve talked to Henry,” she went on quickly now, “Daddy and I. He says he knew it. Says he—saw him lying on the path near Miss Ada’s—says he was out with your Dessie.” She half smiled and swallowed, went on, never raising her voice, holding her lips almost together now as she spoke. “They saw—him—early. And Henry—he’s not very bright—it seems he dragged Tracy off—into the bushes. Said he knew they’d think he did it, said he was afraid to tell us. He cried so much, it was hard to get—words out of him—” She stopped, began again, “Daddy is—broken up.” She swallowed hard, and Tom could see the muscles trembling in her cheek and throat, but she went on almost dully, “He can’t get his mind on—this, very much. We haven’t told Mother. I thought if you knew, perhaps—you’d—” She was looking at her father’s, her whole family’s longtime friend, steadily, quietly, as if unaware that she had not finished her sentence.
“Yes, I’ll do something, Laura. Now run on home and try to rest. Or could you stay here and rest?”
“No. I must go. Thank you.” And she went quickly down the walk to the street. Yes, she’s getting more like her mother every day. So sure, and controlled. Be better if she’d break down a little.
He looked up now at the waiting girl.
“Dessie.”
“Yassuh.”
“Were you with Henry last night?”
“Yassuh.”
“Where were you?”
Dessie gulped, looked toward the door as if praying Mrs. Harris’s ears were not glued to it as hers would surely have been. “We was in my house.”
“All night?”
“Nossuh.”
“Did you go somewhere?”
“Yassuh.”
“Where?”
Dessie swallowed hard.
“Where did you go?”
Dessie’s eyes did not leave his face. “Out in da bushes.”
“What were you doing, Dessie, in the bushes?” and was quickly sorry he had said it, knowing Dessie.
“Cuttin up.” Her big eyes were very grave as they looked straight into his blue ones.
“Cuttin up—You mean—”
“Yassuh. Cuttin up bad,” and Dessie nodded her head to confirm his worst thoughts.
“What time did you two come home?”
“Long daybreak.”
“Did you see anything on the way?”
Dessie nodded again, her tongue refusing words.
“Mr. Tracy?” very low.
Her eyes grew wide with fear. She wet her lips.
Mr. Harris studied her face. “Dessie,” and in his voice was the deep solemnity he had used many a time when questioning his children or about to punish them, “do you know who killed Tracy Deen?”
Dessie squeezed hard on the dishrag until drops of water spilled slowly down her dress. “Nossuh. Honest to Gawd.”
He looked at her steadily, letting his eyes bore through her nervous little body.
“Honest to Gawd, Mr. Harris!” She began to sob.
“Ssssh,” he said. “Does Henry know?”
“Nossuh. Nossuh! When he seen it—the-the—it—he puked up all over hisself.”
“He got sick?”
“Yassuh.”
“Did he wonder who’d done it?”
“Nossuh. He jes said he knowed they’d think he done it.”
“What did he do then?”
“Drug it out in da bushes—offn da path.”
“Why did he do that?”
“I don know, suh. He jes done it.”
“What time did Henry come to you last night?”
“I doesn’t own no timepiece,” she said, and smiled shamedly over this deficiency, “but hit musta been …” She frowned, “It was atta da Nine O’clock run and da meetin was still goin high, for I was singin along wid dem.” She smiled again. “On my shed,” she added, “the sound comes across fine.”
“What were they singing?”
