The Intruder

by Charles Beaumont

  Joey got up, wiped his hands along his trousers, tried to pull the warm night air into him.

  “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” the preacher went on. “Don’t ever envy someone who doesn’t see the truth, Joey, no matter how happy he seems to be. Because it’s not real happiness. It’s not a human being’s happiness. And that’s what you are: a human being. That’s why I say you’re lucky.”

  “If I thought it would work, Reverend—if I thought it really had a chance—”

  “Joey, now, listen to me. I said I knew how you felt because I felt that way, too; and I didn’t lie. But none of that makes any difference now. Because the tiger’s loose, boy, and it’s running. Everybody’s going to get a good look at it. Everybody. We don’t have any little dark secret to keep to ourselves, not any more. You understand? That’s all past. That’s why it’s got to work!”

  Joey picked up a fistful of soft dirt and squeezed it.

  The preacher’s voice got lower. “That’s why I’m talking to you,” he said. “Because whether it does work or not is going to depend an awful lot on you, Joey.”

  “On me?”

  “That’s right. Someone’s got to hang onto that tiger—someone who’s been around it for a long time. Otherwise, Albert will get mad; and that’ll be the end. Because we can’t go back. After tomorrow, nobody on Simon’s Hill will ever be able to go back.”

  Joey wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

  “You’re a leader,” the preacher said. “You’re smart and the kids know it. They’ll follow you. They’ll do what you do. So what it comes to, pretty much, is this: if it works with you, Joey, it will work with the others. And everybody in the country is going to be watching; every principal in every school in every small town in the South; watching, waiting to see what will happen. So what you believe just doesn’t matter any more. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Joey felt tears stinging into his eyes.

  “That’s the way it is, sometimes,” the preacher said, “sometimes a person just finds himself with a job that nobody else can do.” He smiled. “It’s going to be tough—tougher than you could imagine, I guess. You’ll get fire in your blood and you’ll want to fight, or quit, or let somebody else do it. You’ll have the hate and the bitterness roaring in your ears all day and all night, Joey. And you’ll curse me and your mother and God Himself; yes. I’m telling you in advance.”

  Joey listened to the wind. He thought of his parents and of his plans—his plans. And he felt that a steel cage was being lowered onto him, and that he’d never get out.

  “Do you think you can do it?” the preacher asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joey said.

  “Will you try?”

  Joey hesitated. The cage was over him. But the door was still open.

  “Will you?”

  Much later, long after the lights were out and he had made his answer, Joey heard his Uncle Rowan muttering:

  “Some of these Negroes is gonna get a lot of us niggers killed.”

  9

  They came down the hill together, in a group, moving slowly, treading softly, speaking hardly at all. A tall, lithe young man was at the front. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers and a lightweight jacket; he walked on the balls of his feet like an athlete, and swung his arms, but there was nothing cocky about his manner. Directly behind him were three young girls, two of them very dark, with kinky hair, the third a light tan color. Behind the girls were eight boys.

  “Jesus,” a man said to himself.

  Phil Dongen turned his head away from the Negroes and looked at the man, who was short, with the kind of hard, wrinkled skin one sees in those areas where men must work outside; the wrinkles ran like vast dirt-filled cracks along the neck and down the cheeks. He was staring openmouthed.

  “Well,” said Dongen in a whisper, “it’s started.”

  The man nodded. “By Christ, look at ’em.”

  The Negroes were moving like a dark clot among the rushing stream of white children. The town was quiet. People lined the streets, eyes were focused like telescopes, but it was quiet; only a soft murmuring disturbed the morning air.

  Lorenzo Niesen shook his head. A tiny core of awareness began to throb inside him: it was seldom that he summoned a thought or an emotion, his mind had fallen to rust, to decay over the long years, but now an awareness throbbed. Niggers were in town. Nigger children were on their way to the school. He was seeing it. And he wondered, how did it happen? Why didn’t some­body tell me?

  “Looka there.”

  Lorenzo Niesen shifted the wad of Beech Nut chewing tobacco in his mouth. He was a “jumpin’ preacher” and insisted on a Reverend before his name, and, as with so many of the poor whites, he had once traveled a circuit, trying to preach. But he lacked the gift of language. He’d never been able to stir people’s hearts, because he was never truly stirred himself; now, and for a decade, he existed on the meager handouts that came from an occasional Meeting—when hunger would throw his memory back to the nights he had spent aping the words of the Holy Bible. He lived alone, in a hillside shack that he’d constructed himself with the help of friends. He did have friends, all as poor as himself. And a few of them liked him. He needed little else. Only once in a while would come the urge for expression; but he did not recognize the urge. He called it “feelin’ the devil” and cured it with the whiskey he bought, or begged, from Len Backus’s still.

  Life had cheated Lorenzo Niesen. He had a hot furnace somewhere inside him, a holy fire waiting to burn out sin—yet he lived in a placid, sinless town. He could rail against Sex, or thunder cautions on crimes uncommitted, but he did not have the ability to see sin where it was not. Long ago he had planned, vaguely, to go to the city, where godless practices flourished in every dark alley; but now he knew that he would remain forever in Caxton. He was sixty-two. He was an aging knight with a sword in his hand, and he would willingly do battle with any dragon that might wander into his country, but—there was no point in going out of one’s way to look for enemies.

  He lacked only one thing, and this galled him.

  He lacked respect.

  “By God,” he said.

  Phil Dongen nodded. He was a large man with round, rimless spectacles. He, too, had a weathered look; as if his skin were many layers thicker than ordinary skin, tougher and harder. He had straight dark hair that was gray about the temples. “It makes you sick to the stomach,” he said, “don’t it?”

  Dongen had lived in Caxton for sixteen years; for sixteen years he had operated the Ace Hardware Store, on Broad Street, averaging sixty dollars a week. It was more than enough for him. He had helped Bart Carey on the F.C.G. and was violently opposed to integration: It gave him something to be against; something to occupy thoughts that would otherwise be diffuse, scattering cloudlike over the daily business of living. His wife Frieda shared his views, conversationally; but they meant nothing to her.

  “That’s the Green kid,” Niesen said, “up there leadin’ them.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s about what you’d expect.”

  “Yeah. By God.”

  The two men stood quietly, staring; then, when the little parade had passed, they fell in behind, walking in cadence, not knowing why they were following.

  “You gonna be at the courthouse tonight?” Dongen asked.

  “What for?”

  “Got a man in town says he’s gonna stop all this shit.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He’s giving a speech.”

  “Part of the thing you fellas have, you and Bart?”

  “No.”

  They walked. . . .

  It was creepy, in a way, Ella thought: odd. She had never seen so many Negroes in the street before. Maybe some of them would occupy the same room—which she didn’t want, in a sense, and, in another, craved. It was exciting; that was certainly true. She was dressed in the white blouse and dark skirt she’d ironed the night before, and her face was scrupulo
usly prepared—just a touch, an invisible touch, of make-up.

  She walked with Lucy, but they didn’t talk. Once in a while, Lucy would look back and giggle, but they didn’t talk.

  They soon outdistanced the little troupe, crossed the wide lawn, mingled with the crowd of students, and forgot about the news.

  Somebody said, “Hi, kid.” Ella turned and saw Hank Kitchen. Her heart jumped a couple of times, settled.

  “Hi,” she said, dispassionately.

  They looked at one another for a while. It wasn’t possible, but Hank seemed bigger, huskier than before. He had a scrubbed and youthful look about him. His clothes were perfect. The flannels pressed and creased, the white shirt crackling, shoes shined to brilliance, hair exactly three-quarters of an inch high, squared off as though with a ruler.

  “See you,” he said, and vaulted up the stairs.

  Lucy giggled again. “You going to go with him this semester?”

  “I don’t know,” Ella said. “The way he’s been acting; you know.”

  “Sure,” Lucy said, “I know. And this new fellow, too.”

  They both took one more look over their shoulders, saw the band of Negroes moving toward the grass, and went up the stairs and into the dim and echoing hall of the school.

  Harley Paton watched quietly. There was no emotion on his face, though laughter-lines webbing out from his eyes managed to give him a perpetually pleasant look. However, the feeling in his heart was not pleasant.

  He glanced at the English teacher, Agnes Angoff, who was watching also, and said: “What do you think?”

  Miss Angoff smiled. “I think I’m happy,” she said. “I think that things are going to go fine.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, I’m not sure. But—I have this kind of feeling. I think I told you, I checked into their scholastic records. The MacDowell girl is close to straight A.”

  “Good.”

  “And Joseph Green has received excellent marks.”

  “Well,” Paton said, “you’ve got to remember though, Miss Angoff, that’s at Lincoln.”

  “I know. But it’s a good sign anyway.”

  “What about the others?”

  “About the same as with any group of kids,” the woman said. “A few laggards—the Vaughan and Read boys, for instance. But there’s nothing unusual. No record of any troublemakers; that’s the main thing.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s the main thing,” Paton said, thinking that it would be even better if there were no troublemakers among Caxton’s white students. But there were. Out of eight hundred or so kids, he thought, you’ll always find a good number of wise ones.

  Fortunately, he knew who they were. And he planned to give each of them a stern talk, tomorrow.

  Miss Angoff was still smiling. The other teachers—Mr. Lowell, math; Mrs. Gargan, home economics; Mrs. Meekins, world government—wore noncommittal expressions.

  Paton said, “I’ve always been a little afraid of this moment. After the vacation and all the relaxation, then the onslaught all over again. They’re advancing on us like soldiers.”

  “But orderly soldiers,” Miss Angoff said.

  Paton shrugged. He watched the dotted, moving lawn, and sighed. His father was principal of the Carlson high school, twenty-eight miles away; his grandfather had taught at the University; he no longer wondered how it was that he had become a principal. It was inevitable. The fact that he didn’t enjoy the job—except for the children, and the problems they brought to him—made little difference. The world went that way.

  He watched the Negroes stepping onto the lawn, watched the townspeople—about seventy-five of them—following, watched the awkwardly loping white students, and felt that it was altogether too good to be true, too fine to last. In his university days he had dreamt of such a moment, but never with any degree of seriousness. Now it was happening; and he couldn’t accept it.

  “Do you think there will be trouble?” Mrs. Gargan asked suddenly.

  Paton was about to answer, when Mr. Lowell broke in. “Of course there’ll be trouble. These kids are their parents’ children. But maybe it won’t be too bad; maybe we’ll be able to control it.”

  “Of course we will,” snapped Miss Angoff. She was a stout but still attractive woman in her middle thirties. There was a quiet strength about her, but also an almost adolescent enthusiasm which sometimes rankled her colleagues. Nothing pained Agnes Angoff so much as to give a student a failing grade; however, she did not allow this tendency to show. On the outside—to the pupils—she was capable of being stern and cold and businesslike. They respected her, but they did not fear her.

  “I hope so,” Mrs. Gargan said wistfully. “I certainly do hope so. This is a nice school.”

  Paton felt a happily resistible desire to kick Mrs. Gargan in the fanny. He had experienced the urge many times before. For Mrs. Gargan was that paradox: a woman of intelligence—at least, a woman with an accumulation of knowledge—who nonetheless shared all the common prejudices, hates, likes, of the public. She never saw the dark, mysterious side of youth. She liked things to go well. As long as things went well, Mrs. Gargan was happy.

  The Principal of Caxton High School came close, occasionally, to admitting that he had little respect for any member of his faculty, with the exception of Miss Angoff.

  “Well,” Mr. Lowell said gruffly, “I guess we better get ready.”

  “Yes,” Paton said.

  Tom McDaniel lit a cigarette and wondered why things had gone so smoothly: it violated all his fears, and many of his expectations. He was not actually disappointed, except in himself. He had been positive that there would be demonstrations: demonstrations would justify his apprehensions, the remarks he had made in his column, and the long fight he had waged. But the simple fact was, nothing whatever had happened. The Negro children had come down off the hill, they’d walked through the town, and now they were going across the lawn to the school.

  Tom was about to leave, when he heard the first shout. It was a tentative, nervous little yell; but it carried.

  “Hey-a, niggers!”

  He jerked himself back to reality and began to search the ranks of the people. He saw one man, one red-faced man, and he knew at once who had yelled. Abner West. Employed at the Towne Dry Cleaners as a delivery man; a cipher. But a member of the Farragut County Federation for Constitutional Government . . .

  “Git on home. We don’t want you!”

  The band of Negroes stopped, as though suddenly reined in. Joey Green swiveled, hands balled into fists.

  Someone else in the crowd cried: “We don’t want you, black niggers!”

  Who was it?

  Lorenzo Niesen—the Jumpin’ Preacher; straining like a bantam cock, face all flushed, eyes excited.

  Another voice: “This here’s a white school!”

  But no one moved. The voices rose and fell, like sporadic gunfire.

  Then Tom saw other people walking—marching—toward the lawn. They were carrying placards, some pierced by sticks, others more hastily thrown together. He got out his notebook, flipped back the cover, readied a pencil, and tried to read the signs.

  Most were marked: GO HOME NIGGERS!!!

  Others were slightly more elaborate: THIS IS A SCHOOL FOR WHITE PEOPLE WE DON’T WANT NIGRAS!!!

  Fifteen people, in all, with placards: some of them recognizable to Tom, others not. Six were women. He could pick out Mabel Dodge and Edna Callendar. They brandished their signs with a determination which was obviously necessary to cover their embarrassment. They were sure of their cause, but not of their strength.

  Some of the sign holders were youngsters, high school freshmen. They all grinned self-consciously, as though they were not quite aware of what they were doing or why.

  Tom wrote, hurriedly: . . . picket line formed. Orderly. Taunts from crowd led by Abner West.

  “They don’t look so goddamn uppity now,” someone said to Tom. He turned to face Gilly Davenport, the town barber. G
illy was smiling happily. “Bet they’re kinda pale underneath that tan,” he said.

  Tom walked away. He wondered where the signs had come from: the lettering was identical on each—a crude scrawl, but in dark ink, probably India ink. Only one store in Caxton sold India ink.

  He made another note.

  The Negroes were standing still as dark statues; then, Joey Green moved his head, turned, and started to walk toward the school again. The people moved in closer, but allowed room for passage.

  The spell was broken; the white students who had not filed inside sprang again into motion; they went up the steps.

  When Harley Paton appeared at the door, the placard carriers stopped.

  The crowd quieted.

  They saw the look in the principal’s eyes—which was neither condemnatory nor angry but was clearly disapproving—and paused, also.

  Joey Green led the eleven other children up the stairs and into the hall. Principal Paton stood quietly until all the students were in, then he went inside and closed the door.

  In measured tones he said: “My name is Harley Paton; you’ve spoken with me before, I believe. I am the principal of this high school.” He did not put out his hand. “Things are going to be a little hectic today, so you’ll have to be patient. You’ll all be assigned to your classes as soon as we can get around to it.”

  Joey felt some of the tension draining away. The gauntlet had been run, and it hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected; still, he could see the signs and the looks on the faces of the people. . . .

  He threw a glance of confidence to the children clustered loosely around him, and they lined up at the principal’s office.

  There was a lot of waiting, a lot of squinting of the eyes to ignore the bold stares and foolish grins of the white students, who were also in line; but eventually the business was over, they were all assigned to their classes, assigned to their seats, given their lists.