Trouble in July

by Erskine Caldwell

  The men in the yard had crowded around the edge of the porch where they could get a better look at Katy. She smiled at the faces she could see clustered around the steps.

  “Hi there, Katy!” somebody shouted excitedly.

  She leaned forward grinning at the men.

  “Hi there, Katy!” the same voice shouted, louder than before.

  Katy switched on the porch-light, turning the whole yard almost as bright as day. Most of the men who were leaning on the porch hastily backed away, but others took their places, and before long nearly everyone was standing as close as he could get. Katy was still wearing the dress that had been ripped down the front from neck to hem. Mrs. Narcissa Calhoun had said that that was the way she found Katy, and that she wanted her to show what a Negro had done. Narcissa could be seen hovering behind the door, urging Katy to go out on the porch.

  “Hi, Katy! How about it!” somebody called to her.

  She opened the screen door and walked out on the porch. She stood where she was for several moments, turning her head every now and then when Narcissa said something to her. She looked as if she were embarrassed. Her face was flushed almost crimson.

  Finally Narcissa stuck her face around the door and said something to her. Katy hesitated for a moment, and then she took several steps towards the edge of the porch. Almost everybody in the yard had begun to push and crowd around the porch. Katy crossed to the post by the steps.

  “I could get my temper steamed up a lot hotter if it had been anybody else in the world that got raped,” one of the older men in the rear said.

  “Katy Barlow ain’t got exactly the best reputation I’ve heard about,” another one said, “but it ain’t exactly her fault. Her old man just ain’t taken proper care of her since the girl’s mother was found dead.”

  “That’s true enough,” the other one said, “but I just can’t seem to be able to work up a temper over it.”

  Katy was smiling down at the faces glowing in the light. She put one arm around the post, supporting herself, and fingered the torn opening in her dress. The crowd surged forward in an effort to get a closer view of her when she moved the opening in the garment.

  “Hi there, Katy! How about me!”

  She smiled broadly at the faces, her face burning with excitement.

  Several men who had been standing at the edge of the porch directly under her, pushed their way out of the crowd and backed off to the smudge. DeLoach, the barber from Andrewjones, worked his way through the closely packed crowd. They gathered around the smoking smudge fire, watching Katy. Nobody said anything for several minutes.

  Milo Scroggins, a tenant farmer who lived about two miles down the road, came up where DeLoach and the others were standing. He took a bottle of corn liquor from his pocket and passed it around. After the others had had a drink, he turned it up and finished it.

  “I ain’t seen anybody tonight who’ knows anything about her,” the barber said, jerking his head in the direction of Katy on the porch. “It’s funny that she’s been living around here all this time and nobody’s ever had anything to do with her.”

  “You ain’t been asking the right folks,” Milo said. “You ain’t ask me nothing about her.”

  All of them crowded around Milo. The barber nudged him with his elbow.

  “Have you ever noticed her doing anything?” DeLoach asked quickly, nudging him again and again.

  “Notice her?” Milo said, smiling.

  DeLoach nodded several times, still nudging him in the ribs.

  “Last fall I was picking cotton for Bob Watson, over in a field about three and a half miles from here,” Milo said. “Bob Watson owns all the land in this part of the country, and nearly everybody around here works for him, renting or sharecropping or something. There was about thirty-five or forty of us in his field picking cotton this time I’m talking about.”

  “What about her?” the barber asked impatiently, jerking his head toward Katy.

  “Hold your patience,” Milo said, pushing him away. “I’m coming to that part. We are all picking cotton, and Katy Barlow was, too. I noticed all morning that she kept edging up to the boys, and so that afternoon about three o’clock I decided I was going to find out what she was up to. I fell behind the rest of the pickers a little, and it wasn’t long before she dropped behind, too. I talked to her some, trying to feel her out, and she appeared to be just as willing as they ever get. Right then I out and asked her how about meeting me when the picking-day was over, and she said she would.”

  He paused and looked around to see if anyone else had come up to the smudge. The other men looked at Katy on the porch while they were waiting for Milo to continue. DeLoach pranched around excitedly, nudging him.

  “A little before sundown, when the pickers was leaving the field to go home, I made a sign at Katy, and she followed me to the fieldhouse where we had been dumping our pickings all day. I crawled inside and waited, watching her through a crack in the wall as she came across the field. Pretty soon she came jumping in and climbed over the cotton to where I was. I never saw a girl so man-crazy before in all my life. In no time at all she had stripped herself down to her bare skin. I’m here to tell you I never saw a prettier sight than I saw then. She stretched out on the cotton, all naked and soft-looking. Where her legs came together at her belly it looked exactly like somebody had poked his finger in one of those toy ballons, and the place had stayed there. She—”

  There was a commotion in the crowd around the step. Milo stepped and turned around to see what was happening. Katy was laughing nervously and pulling the dress together where it had fallen open.

  “Hi there, Katy! Don’t forget me!” somebody shouted above the uproar.

  DeLoach, the barber, again began nudging Milo in his ribs. Milo jumped every time the barber’s sharp elbow jabbed him.

  “What did you do then?” the barber urged.

  One of the other men took out a bottle and passed it around. They drank it empty and tossed it aside.

  “I didn’t do nothing then, to tell the truth,” Milo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “She lay there carrying on with herself like I never saw before in all my life. Then the next thing I knew she had started in on me the same way. We started rolling around getting at each other. That fieldhouse of Bob Watson’s is about thirty or forty feet square on all sides, and one time we would be bumping up against the side of one wall, and the next time against the other wall, that far away. She got hold of me with her teeth, and I thought she was going to kill me, it hurt so much. I yelled loud enough to be heard a mile away. I reckon I must have lost my head, because I started beating her with my fists, the pain was so bad. It looked like she didn’t mind that at all, because right away she started making a sound like pigeons cooing. Her teeth-bites didn’t hurt as much after that, and all I could hear was that pigeon-cooing sound. That lasted I don’t know how long, but the next thing I knew we was rolling again, all over the cotton. We smashed into a wall, knocking me silly as a jaybird. I didn’t care. What brought me to, was her getting a fresh grip on me with her teeth. I tried to beat her off with my fists, but she wouldn’t let go no matter how hard I hit her. The next thing I remember was when I opened my eyes and saw blood smeared all over both of us. Them sharp teeth of hers had took a bite out of my shoulder the last time, and I’ve got the scar right this minute to show for it. I reckon that scar will be there on me for the rest of my life.”

  There was nothing said after he had finished. DeLoach, the barber, stood staring at him. After a while he walked off into the darkness towards the barn.

  Milo and the other men moved towards the crowd around the porch step.

  “Hi, Katy!” somebody shouted at her.

  Milo pushed forward and took a good look at her.

  “She’s got that same look on her,” he said, whispering to one of the men who had followed him from the smudge. “That’s exactly the way she looked that time in Bob Watson’s fieldhouse.”

&n
bsp; Moths were fluttering around the light bulb on the porch ceiling, many of them flying against her face. She raised her hand and brushed some of them away. When her dress fell open, she pulled the ends together, giggling.

  “Hi, Katy!” a voice, deeper than any of the others, shouted from the darkness of the yard.

  She giggled so much she had to clutch the post with both arms in order to support herself.

  Chapter VI

  AFTER LEAVING JUDGE Ben Allen’s door, Jeff McCurtain got into his car heavy-heartedly, and drove back downtown. Passing as quickly as possible the all-night filling station, which was now dark and deserted, he rode slowly around the Julie County courthouse time after time. His mind was tormented by the urge to follow Judge Allen’s advice for the sake of his political future, but it was his own conviction that more harm than good would come from any interference with a hunt-hungry crowd of men bent on lynching a Negro. He knew from past experience that Judge Allen was playing the situation as he would a game of checkers, and that whenever the opportunity presented itself, Judge Allen would gladly sacrifice one man in order to jump two. Jeff lamented the fact that the threatened law-breaking was not something out-and-out one-sided, such as common breaking-and-entry, or bail-jumping. He did not know how many times he had circled the tall, spire-topped, red-brick building, but he had gone around and around so often that he began to feel dizzy. He felt the car zigzagging in the street, but he had enough presence of mind to bring it to a stop. He looked out and recognized the east side of the courthouse square.

  He was wondering who Judge Allen would choose to succeed him in office if the people turned against him when he suddenly felt deathly sick in his stomach. He slumped over the steeringwheel.

  When he opened his eyes and sat up, he did not know how long he had been there, but he felt much better. He tried to find the illuminated clock-face on the courthouse tower, but the heavy foliage on the trees hid it from view.

  Jeff had no idea where the idea came from, but from somewhere in his dazed mind had come the thought that it would be possible for him to keep from getting involved politically in the trouble at Flowery Branch. He remembered that while he was circling the square he had wished he could go somewhere and get the remainder of his night’s sleep. Now he had a plan that would enable him to do both.

  “Man alive!” he said to himself, getting out of the car and stretching his legs. “I’d have worked myself lopsided out there at a time like this.”

  He felt a lot better already. He was confident that, instead of losing votes in the coming primaries, he would invoke so much sympathy from the people that he would get more votes this time than he had ever before received.

  Jeff walked up and down beside the car several times, limbering his muscles. He had been so thoroughly carried away by his enthusiasm that he had forgotten where he was. He ducked into the shadow of the car and looked around to make certain no one was observing him. He had happened to think that if the night town patrolman had been on the job, he would not have escaped being seen in the middle of the square at that hour. Seeing no one, he started down the street wondering if the patrolman had left town and gone to Flowery Branch.

  Walking hurriedly, and yet being careful not to let his heels click and scrape on the concrete sidewalk, he went in the direction of the rear end of the jailhouse. He went three blocks out of his way in order to avoid being seen by chance anywhere near the front part of the building.

  It made him feel good all over to think how, almost accidentally, he had found a way to satisfy everybody, politically speaking, including both Judge Ben Allen and himself. He thought his plan such a good one that even Corra would be pleased when she heard about it. He walked as fast as he could, swinging the weight of his body forward with a nimbleness that he once thought was gone forever.

  At the rear of the jailhouse he stopped and listened. It was as quiet as a tomb in a country graveyard. The street lights flickered through the trees, making patterns on the pavement that reminded him of his wife’s fancy needlework.

  Going carefully to the rear door, he took out his ring of keys and searched for the proper one. The key opened the lock, making only a single rusty squeak. He listened for a moment and then, secure in the knowledge that the noise had not attracted attention, he opened the door and stepped inside. He was careful to leave the door wide open.

  Jeff stood in the darkness of the cage-room listening to the sound of Sam Brinson’s heavy breathing. Sam’s presence seemed to make everything all right from that moment on.

  He felt his way through the passage between the two tiers of cages. It was pitch black in the room and he had to feel every inch of his way along the passage.

  It was no trouble to feel the familiar pass-key on the ring, and he unlocked one of the cages and let himself inside. The rusty hinges creaked loudly when he moved the steel-barred door, but Sam Brinson’s heavy breathing continued without a pause. He had selected one of the cages on the south side of the passageway, because he remembered distinctly having locked Sam in the colored men’s usual cage on the opposite side.

  Jeff closed the door slowly, taking care not to allow it to squeak any more than necessary. When it was closed, he put his hand between the bars, locked it, and tossed the ring of keys down the passageway as far as he could heave them.

  He knew precisely what he was going to tell Bert the next morning when Bert came to give Sam Brinson his breakfast. He was going to explain that he was in the act of carrying out Judge Ben Allen’s orders when five men, masked with hankerchiefs tied over their faces, had abducted him in the courthouse square, threatening to knock him unconscious with pistol-butts if he made any outcry. After they had taken his keys from him, they locked him in the jailhouse, threw the keys away, and left before he could call for help.”

  He planned to tell Judge Ben Allen that the men had locked him up in his own jailhouse and told him they were doing it in order to keep him from organizing a posse and interfering with their search for Sonny Clark. Judge Allen would not be able to hold him responsible for failing to deputize a posse as he had ordered and, what was equally as important, he would not have to go out to Flowery Branch and commit political suicide by antagonizing voters who were determined to catch the Negro.

  Jeff chuckled to himself, his flesh shaking pleasantly, when he thought how lucky he was to have been able to think of such a fool-proof scheme. He knew Corra would be pleased, too, when she found out how well he had taken care of his political interests. She would be sure to forgive him for his failure to hide himself on Lord’s Creek.

  “Man alive!” he whispered to himself. “If I had gone out there to Flowery Branch, it would have been just like cutting my own throat. That would have been a foolish, far-fetched thing for me to do.”

  He felt sorry for the little Negro boy, Sonny Clark. A feeling of helplessness came over him. He hated to think of the boy’s life being taken away from him, but now that the situation was threatening his own political existence he knew he would have to safeguard his future at any cost. He tried to put Sonny out of his mind by thinking how sleepy he was.

  There were two tiers of bunks in the cage, each tier containing two sleeping-shelves. Jeff felt his way to the bottom bunk on the left. He searched through his pockets for matches, but could not find a single one. He sat down anyway, and took off his shoes. In a few moments he was stretched out on his back sound asleep.

  During the night he woke up once when he thought he heard several men shouting somewhere about the jailhouse, but he could not keep awake long enough to open his eyes. He turned over with his face against the wall and went back to sleep.

  Just as dawn was breaking, shouting voices again woke him up. He awoke with a start. Before he could turn over, the high-ceilinged room was filled with sound. Some of the voices were raised to a high pitch. He was certain one of them was Corra’s.