Dunfords Travels Everywheres

by William Melvin Kelley

  Wendy walked in. “Isn’t this an enchanting little room!” She went all the way to the cabin’s porthole, came partway back. “Come in and shut the door. We’ll pretend it’s ours.”

  He sighed, certain trouble waited, entered the cabin and closed the door. “Let’s not stay too long, all right?”

  She bent to look at books and papers on the desk. He joined her, patted her shoulder lightly. “Don’t touch anything, Wendy.”

  She picked up a small slim book on losing weight, complete with calo-chart, and then another on games for the bedridden. Chig grew interested in a paperback on isometric exercises.

  Under a cross-section of a limb of lacquered oak used as a paperweight, they found a stack of business-machine paper, its sides calibrated like film, a long list of words and numbers:

  SL2,220,101/A22/GARDENER/6499.95

  SL2,220,102/A47/COOK/5999.00

  SL2,220,103/A34/SHOEMAKER/7399.99

  SL2,220,104/A33/BARBER/4990.00

  SL2,220,105/A42/POTTER/7444.95

  SL2,220,106/A29……..

  He stopped reading; he had found trouble enough. The Africans were slaves, an even one hundred of them.

  24

  “WHAT HUNDRED?” If Carlyle spoke to the real Devil, and the real Devil wanted to buy his soul, he would not shoot him in Westchester.

  “Miss Buster’s hundred, please.” The chauffer waved his pistol under Carlyle’s nostrils.

  “What about my shoes, Mr. Good Deal?”

  Hondo watched through the opposite window. “Remember my mama, and give the man the money, man.”

  “Very good, Mr. Johnson.” The chauffer nodded. “And if you do feel abused, Mr. Bedlow, keep fifty dollars.”

  Carlyle reached for the money, peeled off and repocketed five tens, handed the difference to the chauffer. “Fair’s fair, you understand.” He backed out of the car, stood up in the still, cold, blue air.

  “I understand, Mr. Bedlow.” The doors closed. Ma Buster waved from her place; the chauffer’s voice continued over a public address system. “Fear’s fear. Until Thursday, Mr. Johnson.” The limousine did not give off exhaust, just moved, designing the fresh snow with row after row of tiny interlaced hammers, its tail-end, finally, becoming part of the shadows.

  They stood alone, their warm shoes melting the snow. Halfway to the corner, a globe on an old lampstand, a living-room light out of doors, glowed yellow amid snow-rounded trees. Hondo shivered, his shoulders pinching his ears, bit his lips.

  “What you so tightened up about? You just made twenty-five dollars.”

  He watched Hondo lower his head and hurl it at Carlyle’s stomach, embracing Carlyle’s hips, tossing him back into a snowbank. He could think but could not move enough to avoid Hondo’s fists—balled, the size of brown melons—pounding his cheeks. He could talk now, in a few seconds would fight back. “Hey, Hondo. You messing with Carlyle. I can whip—”

  “Here I am.” Hondo hit him again, on the nose.

  He could not see. “If you want a fight, man, let’s whip shit out a him.” He tasted the blood from his nose.

  “Awh, man…” His eyes returned: Hondo shook his head. “You crazy.” He stood up. “Talking about whipping shit out the Devil.”

  Carlyle sat up. “Look at you calling me crazy!” He wiped his face with his hand, bloodying his palm, then covered his nose with snow.

  Hondo started to laugh. “You look like a crazy, psychopathetic rooster, nigger.”

  Carlyle threw away the red snow ball, felt his hair, ruined, sticking straight out from his head. He stood up. “He running a game on you.”

  “For what?” Hondo clapped his hands, shrugged. “I didn’t give him no money. In fact, he gave me cab fare home after I signed up.”

  “Maybe he haven’t sprung the whole trick yet.”

  Hondo sucked his tongue. “He’ll spring the whole trick on Thursday when I die.”

  Carlyle shook his head. “Wait until Friday before you sure.”

  Hondo started to wilt, his shoulders dropping. “Let’s forget it. The man’s the Devil and Thursday I die, and if you ain’t messed my deal, my mama’ll live sick-free for the next twenty years.” He started away.

  Carlyle caught up, grabbed Hondo’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you, man. I’ll lead your mama away from your grave.”

  “Won’t be no grave.” Hondo shook himself free, slid his hands into his overcoat pockets. “I’m supposed to meet him at his office. Then we go somewhere else. I don’t think I’ll be a body after that.”

  “So you told her you dying Thursday?”

  “And give her a shock? She haven’t been well that long.”

  Carlyle stopped, sighed, hurried to catch up again. “And you think she won’t get sick wondering why you didn’t come home and filling out a missing-persons and waiting for news when they drag the river?”

  “It’s my mama.” They arrived at the corner, paused without word to decide which way to go. “But maybe I should tell her I’m taking a long trip, like to California. Michael went out there. And I think his sister went out there too.”

  “Little, short Michael?” From the intersection all the streets looked the same, globes diminishing away to yellow dots.

  “He got big.” Hondo turned a slow circle in place. “Which way we going?”

  Carlyle shrugged; one of his shoulders pained him. “I ain’t been here before.”

  “Listen, Carlyle, do me a favor.”

  Carlyle nodded, waited.

  “If I write a letter telling my mama I’m in California, will you send it to Michael and ask him to send it to her? For the postmark?”

  “Sure. If you die.” He coughed, watched the steam. “But who’ll tell her you dead?”

  Before Hondo could answer, the truck came, braked, a bright green pickup truck, its back filled with ladders and cans of paint.

  “You men lost?” The driver occupied at least half the cab’s seat. He wore a leather aviator’s jacket with a lambskin collar, a flat black leather cap. “You men lost.”

  “We got mugged.” Carlyle explained his face, stepped up to the window. “Where we at?”

  “Brother, I could never tell you. Get in.”

  They walked around the truck, waited for the driver to open the door. Carlyle let Hondo climb in first. He pulled shut the door, cramping the cab. “You lost too?”

  The driver shook his head. “I just don’t know the name, but I know the place. One town end; one start. I haven’t get a interest in them kinds of signs.” He indicated a card-holder on the metal dashboard, shifted into gear.

  Carlyle took a card:

  BUBBAH’S SIGNS

  ALL KINDS

  RIChland 161

  “This you?”

  “No. I’m giving some other man’s cards away. Yes, man. That’s me.” He extended his hand to them, Hondo then Carlyle. “Where you heading?”

  “The city.”

  “I’ll take you to the end of the line.” Bubbah’s smooth, black, fat face hid his age.

  “Thanks. You a painter or something?”

  Bubbah shook his head. “I paint signs. For money.” He smiled. “But they good signs anyway.”

  “Carlyle? Excuse me, man.” Hondo pulled Carlyle’s coat sleeve. “Suppose you write a letter in about two months and say you my friend in California. You know, using another name, and tell her I got killed, eat up by sharks, and leaving no remains. But you seen it. She don’t know your writing. And you send that to Michael.”

  “Taking a trip, brother?”

  Carlyle answered. “He trying to cut some people loose.” He looked deep into Hondo’s eyes, made sure he understood. “Sure. I could do that. But that still some shock for a girl who just got well.”

  Hondo did not comment.


  “But he ain’t really visiting California.” Bubbah came to a full stop, looked both ways, went on straight.

  “No.” He decided to risk telling more. Bubbah seemed experienced, might have seen a game like this before. “Some devil have him in a trick.”

  “What kind?”

  “Not about money. They just seem to want his body.”

  “You mean like a guinea pig?”

  “Hear him, Hondo? Maybe they’ll pickle you. I seen a cat in a big bottle in the museum once.”

  Bubbah did not agree. “No money in that. Five hundred at the most. But if he got relations, remember the ransom.”

  “You listening?”

  Hondo nodded. “She have saved a dollar a week for the last twenty-six years, never took out a cent. She wouldn’t even go for it when she got sick. She call it her funeral money.”

  “So you mixed up with some old girl.” Bubbah’s laugh rumbled.

  “Old enough to be his mama.” Carlyle smiled. “Thursday night she’ll get a phone call, somebody talking about he’s safe, Mrs. Johnson, but drop a paper bag at a bridge in Bronxville.”

  Hondo shook his head. “She won’t get no phone call.”

  Carlyle leaned close to Hondo’s ear. “We waste him?”

  “Sure.” But the idea did not make him happy.

  They reached a road, two lanes winding through parks and thickets of snow-clogged trees. The road turned into a highway; the private homes changed to apartment buildings. They left the highway, made two lefts, and started to climb a long hill, passing several stranded automobiles. The elevated subway ran along the ridge of the hill.

  “We live right near here, Bubbah. Drop us anywhere.”

  “I’ll take you home.” He carried them to Carlyle’s house, looked down at them from his window. “Don’t do nothing foolish.”

  Hondo seemed tired. “Thanks for the ride, Bubbah.”

  “Later, man.”

  “Just do what you ken.” Bubbah raced the motor, shifted, moved off, ladders and cans rattling.

  Carlyle felt for his keys. “I don’t think we can kill him. We don’t have no organization to back us up. But we can give him a cheek-scar, hope it teach him a lesson. You hungry?”

  “Just how you plan to scar the Devil? Acid in his face?”

  “The Devil? I thought you said—”

  “I did. Before I remembered how sick my mama got.”

  25

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK NOW, my good doctor?”

  He thought he felt sick, then realized he felt fear. “That you should put that down and we should go—all right?”

  “Yes. But first we’ll collect some evidence.”

  “There’s plenty across the hall.” His joke made him sad. “Come on, Wendy.” He grabbed her wrist, took the slave manifest from her, and put it on the desk.

  When he released her, she picked it up again, tore out a page, folded it small and stuffed it into her purse. “All right, now.”

  He backed away from the desk, toward the door, found the knob with his hand. “I guess we better just walk out, and if we run into anyone, pretend we’re lost.”

  “All right, doctor.”

  He opened the door a crack and spied Oglethrope loitering in the passageway. He took a breath, stepped out. “Hello, sir. Which way is it to the infirmary?”

  “The infirmary, bud?” Oglethrope rounded his right eye. “Who’s hurting?”

  “A woman’s problem.” Wendy raised her chin, offered her hand, introduced herself.

  “A prize to meet you, Miss Whitman.” Oglethrope squinted, it seemed, at her breasts. “You got family in the Midwest?”

  “This is Mr. Oglethrope,” Chig interjected, taking her elbow. “Feeling all right, Miss Whitman?”

  She nodded, watching Oglethrope. “I have family everywhere. We all haven’t remained in Virginia.”

  “Virginia, huh?” He looked at Chig. “Maybe you don’t need TYO after all.”

  “Do you know where the infirmary is, sir?” He tried to keep his face from moving.

  Oglethrope pointed. “To the end of the passage, make a right and climb the stairs. And take it slow for the little lady’s sake.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Oglethrope.” He squeezed her elbow. “Come on, Miss Whitman.” He pulled her gently.

  “I’m sure I’m going to see you before the end of the voyage, Mr. Oglethrope.” She turned back, smiled a good-bye that looked to Chig like a hello.

  Oglethrope did not answer; his eye watched them until they turned the corner, kept them silent until they regained the deck, dark now, the wind stopped, the waves calmed.

  “He’s so muscular. Is your friend an athlete?”

  “I think so. I don’t know him very well.” He tried to order his thoughts, did not have time for Oglethrope. “What do we do now?”

  He could not see her face clearly.

  “About those Africans, you mean?”

  “Yes.” The moon had not yet risen. “The slaves.”

  “But, Chig-dear, they’re not slaves.”

  He closed his eyes against the dark shadows, and found more. “No?”

  “Certainly not. They’re just plain Africans.” She paused. “It’s an interesting idea, but…”

  “What about your evidence?”

  “What’s wrong with you, Chig? I didn’t say evidence. I said momento.”

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, her face came up, mouth stretched wide but unsmiling. If he did not steer himself away from it, they would argue. Besides, she did not have to believe it. “All right, they’re just plain Africans.” He reached for her hand.

  “Nigger? Don’t you dare touch me! Unless I give you my expressed permission.”

  Wow. Again, it came to that. It always seemed to come to that. He sighed, backed away. “I hope you and your friend have a pleasant voyage, Wendy.”

  “Don’t pretend to be so God-awful polite.” Her voice stayed dry, even, perfect.

  “I’m not pretending. We house-niggers are bred to be polite.” He even attempted a little bow, felt foolish, did not care. Walking away, he wondered whether she watched after him, but did not look back.

  “Wow,” he said aloud to himself, still walking, shaking his head. The nigger had hid behind all the words all that time. He simply never wanted to hear or see it, just as he did not want to believe he had bought passage on a slave ship.

  But then, perhaps the Africans had signed on of their own free will, as bond-slaves. They might not even land in the United States, might sail on after he had disembarked.

  He heard steps, thought they would pass him by. “You’re late for supper, Mr. Dunford.”

  “I’m a little overweight anyway, Wally.”

  “Huh?” He wore a plaid sport coat over his blue shirt, and a tie.

  “I’m only joking, Wally.” He tried to smile, could not.

  “Ya. Sure. I asked, Mr. Dunford, and they said you didn’t have to sit at your assigned table on the last night, so I saved you a place.”

  “Thanks anyway, Wally. I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat, Mr. Dunford.” He wrinkled his nose. “You paid.”

  “You may be right, Wally.” He pretended seriousness. “Let’s go to dinner.”

  They went inside through the lounge, brightly lit and empty, and one level down, entered the dining room, ringing with heavy forks on heavy plates. Lynn and Oglethrope had already taken two places at Wally’s table.

  Oglethrope grabbed his napkin from his lap, stood up. “Glad you came along, bud.” He extended his hand.

  “So am I, Mr. Oglethrope.” He shook the hand once, let go. “How are you, Lynn?”

  “You know Lynn, bud?”

  She smiled. “Fine, thanks.”

  Wally took the
seat across from Lynn at the small square table. Chig sat down, facing Oglethrope.

  “Want some bread, bud?”

  “Yes, thanks.” He took the plate, remembering he had met Oglethrope near the slave-quarters. “Did Mr. Oglethrope tell you he was looking for you, Wally?”

  Wally nodded, his head down, fork chasing peas.

  “Found him too. Both of them.” Oglethrope had finished eating, only a paste of gravy and mashed potatoes smearing his plate. “Going sneakers never pays.”

  Chig looked at his food, picked up his silverware. “What kind of meat—”

  “Roast pig.” Oglethrope’s lips had not moved. “Some nice-looking girl you picked up, bud.”

  He felt his stomach shift, caught it. “Isn’t she, Mr. Oglethrope?” Let him believe what he wanted to believe.

  “He knew her from before. Right, Mr. Dunford?”

  “Just a second, Wally.” He made himself smile. “Pardon me for asking, Mr. Oglethrope, can they talk? I mean, to each other?”

  Oglethrope curled his lip. “Let them try.”

  Chig gave the man his nervous little laugh. “I just wanted to know. So I wouldn’t make a mistake.”

  Oglethrope blinked. “You’re a cool one, Dunford.”

  “I am?”

  “You think I don’t know you were helping them go sneakers?” He inhaled through his nose. “You folks always meddle.”

  “Excuse me?” He began to worry about the small bones in his ears, then remembered Wendy. “Meddle in what, Mr. Oglethrope?”

  Oglethrope made the motion of pounding the table, but pulled his punch, attracting no attention. “In people’s private lives.” He glared at Chig, then Wally, and finally Lynn. His face softened. “Can’t really blame the kids. Not with folks like you around to ruin their outlook.”

  Chig drew a deep breath. “Mr. Oglethrope, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t?” Oglethrope held his butter knife in his right hand.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Dunford. He’s right.” Wally’s face puckered. “I mean about me and Lynn.”

  His left leg itched, tickled. He reached to scratch and felt the point of a folded slip of paper. Lynn stared at Oglethrope. He took her note. “About what, Wally?”