Strange Fruit, page 31
His voice deepened. “Oh, my friends … My heart is bleeding tonight for the unsaved of this town …
“You wives … Where are your husbands…?
“You mothers … Where are your boys…?
“Where were they last night, and the night before … and the night before? Do you know?”
His despairing eyes plunged into white faces straining up toward him.
In the quick stillness the croak of frogs came through the tent, bringing the night. Darkness fell on the hearts of the women of Maxwell. Dread of knowledge seeped about their ignorance of their men’s lives like cold swamp water, staining complacency, chilling sheltered spirits. And they were afraid. Where were they tonight? They did not know. They had never known. Like their knowledge of Nigger Quarters, they knew of their men’s lives only that which came into their homes. They did not want to know more.
Brother Dunwoodie took out his handkerchief, wiped his face slowly.
“You can hear their cries … the wailing of lost souls … as they enter an eternity of torture. Listen …” His voice sank to a whisper. “Listen to those cries … Do you hear them, you women? Oh, can you not hear them? It is needless to talk of mother love. You Christian mothers would go down into hell to save your boys’ souls. Wouldn’t you? Mothers, go down on your knees to Jesus now and beg Him to soften your boy’s heart, to give him a sense of sin … before it is too late.”
One by one, women slipped the old millstone of their men’s unknown sins around their necks, sank to their knees in the sawdust, whispering awkward prayers.
Brother Trimble began to sing. Without accompaniment his clear tenor voice floated through the tent asking the old, old question, “Are you ready … are you ready … are you ready for the judgment day?”
Someone began to sob. You could hear the soft weeping of women who would face the Judgment Bar of Heaven with their men’s unknown sins more willingly than they would face the knowledge here on earth of what those sins might be. Softly they cried, tears falling on their hearts like cold rain.
Little Mrs. Paine was praying aloud. “God,” she prayed abruptly and shrilly, “save my boy.”
Brother Dunwoodie’s strong Amen! gave impetus to the little prayer as it winged across the blazing planets to God, while Mart Paine, who sat well toward the back, ducked his head quickly as he heard his mother’s voice. And the boys with him grinned at him and each other sheepishly and moved their shoulders restlessly against the back of the bench.
Mrs. Henderson laid down her hymnbook and gathered up her gloves. It was only her civic sense of duty that had made her attend the revival services. This, tonight, was too much. She smoothed down her Episcopalian bosom and walked out into the night.
Brother Dunwoodie in silence let her go halfway down the long sawdust aisle while he looked at her retreating back. And others turned and looked. And the mill people over on the far side stared at the tall, handsome, black-haired lady and at the preacher, turning their heads from one to the other, as they stared. “For some,” Brother Dunwoodie spoke at last, slowly, “the Gospel of Jesus is too strong meat for their po’ sick souls to stummick.” Mill folks tittered, and two girls stood, the better to see her, as the lady went, a little rapidly now, out of the door.
Old Mrs. Bailey, who sat next to Mrs. Henderson, seemed not to notice when she left, for as always she was looking far away, beyond the preacher, beyond the tent, as her hands played ceaselessly with her crucifix … and her lips moved as she breathed, “Lovely Mary, it’s been so long, so long …”
TWENTY-FOUR
Mrs. Deen came down the stairs, walked through the reception hall, bowed to her neighbors, stood in the doorway of the living room.
Before her, upon its stand, lay the expensive gray casket containing her son. On the piano Mrs. Pusey had placed a bowl of Cape jasmines, and on chairs and tables lay homemade bouquets and wreaths from neighbors. The casket was bare, awaiting the family’s mantle of yellow roses from the Jacksonville florist. Dot Pusey had asked Laura to have yellow roses because Tracy had noticed yellow roses wherever he saw them, and the Puseys had ordered yellow roses also, a big cross of them. Dot had been a great help to the family and everyone else, doing the important things which none of the Deens would ever have thought of doing, or thought of as important. All afternoon her little green dress had swished through the Deens’ spacious rooms and hallways as she told Eenie what to have for supper; called Henry from his cabin steps where he squatted with face buried in his big black hands; took from the neighbors their offerings of flowers and custards and cake and salad; found for the undertaker the numberless articles which undertakers seem always to need. And though her chin shook when she talked, after a first brief paroxysm of grief, she had kept herself under control. It was due to her vigilance that Tracy now wore the blue suit he had always liked instead of the brown suit she had disliked and which she had intercepted just in time from the undertaker; that Tracy had on a brown-gray tie instead of the black one; that the garnet stickpin was in it; and that his hair was parted on the left side, the way he wore it. It was due to Dot’s loving care that when the undertaker finished his rites Tracy looked “real natural,” as the neighbors were saying; and it was due to Dot that the center chandelier had been turned off and only the wall lights burned, making a dim room in which the handles of the casket gleamed softly. And now, with everything ready for that last brash stripping-away of reticence, the last stark display of body—the high price exacted by those left behind for our eternity of privacy within the deep earth—Dottie had run across the track to her home for the rest she sorely needed.
Across the street, down at the Wilkinsons’, you could hear—if you were sitting in the hall or out on the porch—hushed voices practicing the songs for the funeral. You could hear Nearer My God to Thee, but you heard it as the shadow of an old memory creeps along the edge of your mind. And now there was silence. You knew they were turning the pages of the Methodist Hymnal, searching for the next song. You wondered when they’d be turning the pages searching for the next song for you, and what that song would be, what tune the Quartet would use to sing you across to eternity. They had found it. You could hear Pug Pusey sing a line before the piano began—a thin tenor line.
On the other side of town three pistol shots rang out. A yell. Somebody screamed—or you thought they did, and you grew restless wondering if there would be trouble tonight.
But inside the house there was no sound. The talk in the big hall had ceased when Mrs. Deen came down the stain. She was still standing in the doorway, as if she had forgot to go in. She stood so long that those behind her in the big hall grew restless. Somebody got up and moved a bowl of flowers. Somebody else said very softly, “Cotton’s dropping again—went down two cents today.” But nobody answered. Nobody thought you ought to talk about cotton with Mrs. Deen standing there. Nobody thought you ought to talk about anything on earth while the tall gray-haired woman stood there, staring across the room at her son’s casket.
Alma Deen walked into the room, closed the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
Mrs. Brown set the tub of flowers on the floor and wiped her face. “I hear that the Philathea Class telegraphed for a beautiful floral piece from Jacksonville.” She was busy now taking the flowers one by one from the tub. “The Banca Class too. Maybe I’m old-fashioned,” she tied some heavy Boston fem together, “but I still think neighbors’ own flowers, fixed by their own hands, carry more real feeling—Don’t you, Nonnie?”
“Yes mam,” Nonnie said … Henry will look after you and if he doesn’t Nonnie you come straight to me and I’ll …
“Hand me that asparagus fem—Now I’ve always thought Cape jasmine and pink roses real beautiful together—Don’t you, Nonnie?”
“Yes mam,” Nonnie said.… but you can’t be I’ve got to go now Mother’s after me I thought you’d know how not to having gone to college and everything …
“But for a man, pink seems, kind of feminine, don’t it? Do hand me that tuberose, Nonnie. Ain’t they sweet! Sometimes I’ve thought I wouldn’t mind death if I could go smelling something sweet as tuberoses—Don’t it—pink, I mean—for a man?”
“Yes mam,” Nonnie said.… you’re mine you hear they can’t take you away from me damn em goddam em they can’t …
“Now some more asparagus fern. Let’s use red roses instead of pink. I think red seems much more masculine—much more, don’t you?”
“Yes mam.” … 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 …
“Now some more fern. Help me here—yes, tie it tight now. That’s right. You look so tired, Noanie—do you feel bad?”
“No, Mrs. Brown.” … it’s Mother you see Mother …
“You’re so whi—so pale! It’s the heat. I reckon. I’ve never seen a worse heat wave, have you?”
“No mam.” … I’ve decided to go straight I believe there’s something in it maybe I’ve changed I’ve …
“Look through the tub for some rambler buds. I cut a little of everything—Seems to me the loveliest bouquets just sort of grow as you work along with them.”
“Yes mam.” … having gone to college and everything I thought sure you’d know how not to I’ve fixed it I’ve fixed it Henry old fool but he’ll be good to you he’d better or I’ll …
“That’s fine. Most of the ramblers are blighted now, but I did find a few buds that’re right pretty. Would you put them here or here? Which do you like best? Which do you think, Nonnie?”
“Excuse me, mam. Here, I think.” … you’re like the old ivories on Grandma’s big square piano in Macon she always kept the shades down and it was cool and dim and sometimes I’d go in when I was a little fellow they give you the works that’s what they do they lay my face on the cool pale keys like this Nonnie like this …
“Now another red rose. Find me a long-stem one and break the thorns off. Hate to pick up a bouquet and get stuck in a hundred places. Is that the best you can find?”
“Yes mam.” … and Mother’d come in and ask me what on earth I was doing Mother’s always first time she ever put Laura in first time first time too it was the first time always asked you were scared you …
“Now for another tuberose. Here, tie it tight, Nonnie, pull now—that’s it! What would you put here? Yes, that fern is needed. How many more Cape jasmine that aren’t yellowed? How many, Nonnie?”
“Five, Mrs. Brown.” … first time first time thought sure you going to college and everything it’s Mother she nothing ever satisfies …
“Nonnie, you’re shaking like a leaf. You’ve got malaria, sure as the world! What is it, Nonnie? Are you all right, Nonnie?”
“Yes mam.” … he’s killed a white man I thought sure having been to college God damn em they can’t make me give you up mine since you were I hope some day Non you’ll forgive me shucks even white gals does dat that’s what you’ll be concubine that’s the Bible name for it there’re worse and you’ll hear them you’ll hear …
“You’re having a chill right this minute! Here. Take this quinine. Take it, Nonnie! Might have known you was going to have a chill when you came this morning. Looked sick then. Take it now.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brown.” … he killed a white …
“You sure you’re not real—”
“I’m all right, mam.” … you smell so good to me Non I may come back late I may come it’s Mother nothing I …
“Well, you don’t look it. Is it your sick time, Nonnie? That’s bad enough, heavens knows, but the quinine can’t hurt you anyway, and I don’t want you coming down with a spell of something. Boysie couldn’t do without you—Now one more sprig of fern and we’re through. Did Uncle Pete deliver the ribbon? I phoned right after breakfast.”
“Yes mam.” … I’m going straight from now on he’s killed a white man you’re mine you hear if any has one of them ever touched you tell me Nonnie have they have they it’s Mother you don’t know Mother she I’ve never seemed able to please her she always you can’t think things through down here concubine concubine that’s the Bible name …
“White satin … I do love white satin. Like a baby’s skin, ain—isn’t it?”
“Yes mam.” … you wouldn’t want your man cleaning spittoons that’s it isn’t it you would first time first time too …
“My wedding dress was white satin. Papa gave me away. Shook like a leaf, we teased him so. When we named Boysie after him we didn’t know then … We’re taking Boysie to Atlanta again, Nonnie. They’re going to drain some more of the water out—it’s pressing against his brain, they say, that’s why the poor little fellow can’t walk or talk—they think it will help. Do you suppose it will, Nonnie, do you suppose—Seems like we’ve tried so much—”
“I hope it will, mam.” … he’s killed a white man I hope you’ll forgive me some day here’s some money two hundred dollars two …
“I don’t know if it will or not. I have hope, then lose it. Seems like—I’ve never understood God doing this to us. I—Mama says I ought not quation God’s purpose, that His ways are mysterious and beyond our und—I’m sorry, Nonnie, to c-cry—before y-you—like thi—this—It’s—I’m up-upset—A death always up—I try—so hard—not to—give in—know Boysie’s my-my cross—t-to bear—he’s such a sweet b-baby—I—shouldn’t—”
“He is, Mrs. Brown.” … you can’t think things out down here that’s the Bible name for it there’re others you’ll hear them all I’m going clean from now on Dorothy a ring back to Washington to live decently I’ve fixed that …
“Do look in m-my bureau for a hankie—and then you must take the flowers over before they wilt. I know I should do it, but since Papa died I—it upsets me—the c-coffin—and—I want you to take it, please, Nonnie.”
“Yes mam.” … it’s Mother sometimes I’ve thought if I could please her once God damn em concubine that’s one name for it you’ll hear them all before before you’re look at the light on your hand hold me Nonnie you’re my nigger how’s that you’re my nigger and I love God curse them God curse I’ve hurt you I’ve well I’m glad I’m glad why should I do all the suffering why answer me that why …
“And, Nonnie! Speak to Miss Laura or Mrs. Deen sure, and give them my love and tell them my heart is with them, though I can’t leave Boysie. He isn’t well, tell them. I know it’s half a story but it’s better sometimes to tell a white lie than to hurt—Don’t you think so, Nonnie?”
“Yes mam.” … I can’t face it the hell part of dying I can’t do it I’d rather it’s Mother to live decently thought being I can’t I’m going straight it’s Mother …
“I’d break down completely—the coffin—and the music—I heard them practicing last night over at the Wilkinsons’—the quartet, I mean. It brought back Papa’s death so—my pillow was sopping—Hurry, Nonnie! The flowers are already beginning to droop. It must be about time for the funeral. Hurry—”
“Yes mam.” … I’d lay my face on them so cool and dim it’d be in there it did something to me like this like this like this like this like this this this this this …
“I’ll start your dinner for you,” Mrs. Brown called, and hurried to the porch, dabbing at her eyes, as Nonnie walked down the steps with the spray of red and white flowers in her arms, walked across the railroad track, down the side street to the back door of the Deen home.
TWENTY-SIX
Laura had dressed early and sat now in the library, inept and griefless in her thin black dress of mourning.
Beyond the wide double doors which opened into the living room, slow-gathering friends and neighbors dragged like a heavy chain, refusing her solitude. She wanted to leave her brother’s funeral to Miss Belle and the Culpeppers, to the Puseys and the Wilkinsons and all these self-appointed, and kind, mourners—and go away. Somewhere there must be a place, if she could but reach it, where she could begin to find what she had lost—or never possessed. She had to feel something. Everything she respected in herself, that seemed decent and right, clamored that she begin to feel something for this brother whose name, now whispered, called forth nothing at all.
She had been awakened in the night by the words, He’s free! winging through her mind, like something that flies across your face in the dark. And in her sleep she had turned on him, hating, and had screamed at her dead brother. Lying there half awake, she had felt confused, believing that he had deliberately died, to keep her at home. She knew she could not believe this, and yet nothing else would enter her mind. She had not slept again. And she had grown oppressed and frightened. By everything. A future that one moment seemed to have broken off at the edge of a precipice; the next, was a road stretching out in one endless, monotonous, inevitable direction; a past that she could find no return way through.
She wouldn’t mind staying at home. She wanted to stay. She had lain there in bed and cried like a child, telling herself it was a dream … It’s just a dream … not something real … you don’t feel that way about him—you couldn’t … it isn’t real. And after a time, she had grown quiet.
But she had been too wakeful to sleep afterward, and lay there, seeing in her mind the neighbors sitting downstairs with Tracy. They still sat up with the corpse in Maxwell, volunteer guardians of the living against the terrible clutch of the dead, keeping them safe by cheerful talk, by the sheer magic of themselves being alive. She could see them sitting in the reception hall, doors open into the living room where Tracy lay. Men she had known all her life downtown but seldom seen in her home. And Simmie Jones—quiet, shy, timid Simmie, who, tongue-tied and afraid in the presence of the living, was at ease and calm and at home with the dead. You’d never see Sim—or if you did he would turn his head away—until someone died; and then there he would be: quietly poised, and cheerful, and talkative.
