He cursed and kicked the bucket away, sending it to a clattering stop against the far wall there in the secretary’s area. He could hear Porter apologizing, the fat lawyer’s words of horror at what had happened, even though he had to know Buddy had done it to himself—but Buddy could not listen to him. He was certain the woman was laughing at him; he was certain of it, though she had not made a sound. He could still not see her face, and that made him all the more certain—the goddamn nigger, he told himself, feeling soapy water mush in his shoes as he took a step and then stopped again. The goddamn nigger—I’ll show her. The goddamn—
“Are you a crazy white boy or something?” Isaac’s cousin, Wilson Jakes, asked Henry the following afternoon as the three boys stood on the sidewalk before Patterson’s Drug Store on Main Street. They had been playing ball earlier in the day along with the other kids who frequented the vacant lot between the white and black sections of town, and had only stopped when Teddy Wiggins’s father and two other men Henry had never seen before had come to the lot looking for Teddy, and then had stayed, trying to start trouble with some older boys who had been playing at the field. Henry, Isaac, and Wilson had walked toward downtown to pass the time, and Henry had suggested they spend the afternoon at the picture show, never thinking—
“You really think they’re gonna let two colored boys and a white boy sit together in the picture show?” Wilson asked, looking at Henry as if he had lost his mind for bringing up the subject.
“I—” He started to say that he did not know, but stopped himself. He did know. White folks and black folks did not sit together in the movie theater, any more than they did anywhere else in Pine. White folks sat in the seats on the main floor of the picture show, and black folks sat in the seats up in the balcony above. Henry had seen the signs that said “White Only” and “Colored Only” posted in the theater, just as he had seen them on lavatory doors in buildings, and above the two water fountains in the back of the Five and Dime there on Main Street. That was the way things were. It was just hard to think of things being that way when your best friend was black. Henry did not see any difference between himself and Isaac. They were almost the same age, and their fathers were friends as well—and both Henry and Isaac had sisters they didn’t get along with. Isaac’s sisters were older, but that didn’t make much difference; sisters were sisters, no matter how old.
Wilson shook his head now as he stared at Henry. He was a year older than Isaac’s eleven-and-a-half years, which made him a year and a half Henry’s senior, and he had a habit of treating Henry as if he thought he was still a little kid. He gave another shake of his head when Henry did not respond. “You are a crazy white boy,” he said at last, a dismissive tone in his voice.
“I’m only three-parts white,” Henry said, although he was unsure as to why he was saying it. “My grandma was Cherokee; my pa’s only half white,” realizing as he said the words that they sounded somehow like an apology.
Isaac changed the subject, taking Henry’s arm almost as if he were trying to lead him out of the situation. “I’m hungry, Wilson—let’s go on over to Fluellen’s and get some cheese and crackers,” he said, nodding his head toward the grocery across the way. Wilson agreed, and, as he often did, started just a step ahead of the two younger boys as he headed for the edge of the sidewalk. Henry followed, glad that Isaac had redirected the conversation—Henry had not liked it the times when Reuben and Teddy had called him colored, and he had found out today he did not like being called white if it meant being called crazy at the same time. He looked down at where Isaac’s hand rested on his arm, and then at his own hand when Isaac released him—if I was to cut myself and bleed, he wondered, would it be white people’s blood, or Cherokee?
And he found himself wondering how it was that anyone could tell.
As he stepped down off the sidewalk just behind Wilson and Isaac, he saw a car door open outward and directly into Wilson, hitting him hard in the side. Wilson stepped back, rubbing at his arm, his eyes on the tall, heavy-set man who slowly got out from behind the wheel of the vehicle. The man looked at him, then turned to examine the edge of the door that had struck the twelve-year-old, and Henry had the distinct impression that the man had hit Wilson deliberately—but grownups didn’t hit kids on purpose, Henry told himself.
The man at last turned back to Wilson. He was tall, almost as tall as Henry’s father, but much heavier of build. His face was full and close to being jowly, his gray eyes lost in the heaviness of his features—but they were mean eyes, Henry thought, finding himself using a term that his sister, Judith, sometimes used. If ever in his ten-and-a-half years Henry had seen mean eyes, then these were mean eyes, cold and gray, and with almost no feeling in them.
“You goddamn little nigger,” the man said, staring at Wilson, sending a shock through Henry, not at the words, but at the hatefulness of them, “you almost scratched my car.”
Wilson just stared at him, which seemed to make the man madder. Henry saw the man’s fists knot up, and he thought he would hit Wilson, but Wilson only stared up at him in return, then started past him, never having said a word.
Isaac and Henry followed, Henry glancing up at the man as he drew even with him. Recognition seemed to come to the man’s features as he stared down at Henry, a look of recognition, and something more.
Henry followed Wilson and Isaac across the street. Just as he stepped up onto the sidewalk at the other side, he turned back one last time—the man was still staring after them.
Henry had never seen such a look of hatred.
The boy was Janson Sanders’s son—Buddy Eason told himself a short while later as he stood at the side of the street between his car and the next. He stared after the three boys long after they had disappeared through the door of Fluellen’s Grocery. There was no doubt—the straight, black hair; the features; the coloring; the green eyes so like those of the man Buddy Eason hated most in the world. It had been a startling moment, seeing those features on the face of the boy, as if Janson Sanders was made all over again.
Buddy started across the street almost without thought. He intended to find the three boys, to go and cower down Sanders’s son and send him home to tell his daddy about the man who had scared him. He paid little attention to the cars as he crossed, and only barely noticed the loud blast of a horn just before he stepped up on the sidewalk at the other side—but that blast brought a face to the window of the office before him there in the line of buildings as he reached the sidewalk, and eyes that met his for a brief instant before the blinds were hurriedly dropped back into place.
He was standing directly before the door to Porter’s law office. It was the girl, Esther, who had laughed at him the night before. Buddy smiled, all thought of the three boys leaving his mind now at the prospect of finding her there alone. He knew no one else would be working at the law office on a Saturday morning.
It was time for a little payback.
Esther Tipton tried to thumb the lock on the door before Buddy Eason could reach it. Her hand closed over the knob, one thumb moving up to push at the locking mechanism—but then the knob was twisting in her hands, the door coming inward against her. She shoved against it, trying to force it shut—but Buddy Eason’s foot was in the door, blocking it, and he was shoving it inward—
As the door came back into her chest, she moved away, trying to distance herself from him as he entered the room and then turned to close the door after himself.
“Mr. Porter’s gonna be back any minute. You better go on,” Esther said, hearing the lie shaking in her own voice as he turned back to look at her—she should never have come in today to finish cleaning while the office was empty. She knew that. She should never—
“Lawyers don’t come in on Saturdays,” he said, very quietly, staring at her, and she felt a knot of fear tightening in her stomach at the look there in his eyes as he started across the room in her direction.
“I mean it; you better go on.” She backed away, keeping the desk between them, a table, a heavy chair—she didn’t know what he could be capable of doing to a woman found alone on a Saturday morning, but she had heard talk. Her eyes moved toward the door—if she could get past him and out onto the sidewalk, then everything would be fine. He would never dare to follow her outside.
She tried to make it past him, not to run but to push on past, but he caught her with one massive hand and brought her around to face him, then slung her backwards onto the floor so hard that all the breath was knocked out of her with the shock that moved up along her spine—then he was on top of her, his weight pressing her into the wood flooring. His hand clamped down on her mouth and nose, almost ending her ability to breathe as he stared down at her—she could see it in his eyes. She could see it—but still she refused to believe until she felt his free hand yank her skirt up. She tried to bite the hand covering her mouth, tried to get enough air in to scream as she felt him grab hold of her underclothing, her fingers clawing at his eyes, striking him, drawing blood from his hand as she tried to drag it from her face—then he hit her so hard that consciousness started to leave her. Don’t let him do it—she begged to God. Please don’t let him—then he hit her again and all thought began to fade. There was an awful moment of intrusion as he fumbled between her legs, then pain as he forced himself upward into her.
Then Esther knew nothing but darkness.
She became conscious again only after it was over. Buddy was leaning against the desk, looking down at where she lay on the floor, when the woman began to move, to become gradually aware of where she was and what had happened to her. She moved onto her side, then slid herself back and away from him, to press herself into the corner with her back against the wall—she had not looked at him, and Buddy liked that.
“You’ll think before you laugh at another white man again, won’t you?” he asked, moving toward her. He hoped that she would cringe away, but she did not, and he found that disappointing. She had moved into a sitting position against the wall, her knees drawn up as she rocked slightly, a stunned look on her face. She did not meet his eyes, though the tears flowed freely down her cheeks now. “Do you have any idea what I’ll do to you if you tell anybody what happened here today?” he asked, but still she did not respond. “I’ll tell them we were having fun and you like it rough—and who do you think they’ll believe, a nigger like you, or me? Then I’ll hurt you bad the next time.” He waited for her to respond, and, when she did not, he continued. “You can’t imagine the things I can do to you if I have to teach you another lesson. You can’t imagine—” He stared at her for a moment, then started away at last, knowing that she understood. She would know better than to ever tell anyone.
Then he heard her voice, the words so soft, “‘God himself shall be with them, an’ be their God,’” he heard, and wondered for a moment if she had lost her mind in what he had done to her.
She continued to rock, the stunned look remaining on her features.
“‘And God’ll wipe away tears from their eyes; and there will be no more death, neither sorrow . . .’”
Then her eyes rose to meet his and Buddy felt unease move through him, for there was such an awareness in her features, as well as a hatred sitting atop the shattered look that still remained on her face. “‘But th’ fearful, an’ th’ unbelievin’, and th’ abominable . . .’” she continued, her eyes set now on his face, unmoving, “‘. . . will have their part in th’ lake that burns with fire an’ brimstone. . . .’”
“Do you think your God really cares what happens to you?” Buddy asked her, and was almost certain for a moment that she had not heard.
Then her words came, and he thought for a moment she was again quoting her scriptures.
Then he understood.
“You’re gonna burn,” she said quietly, staring at him. “You’re gonna burn.”
Chapter Fourteen
Reverend Edward Jakes stood in the front parlor of Walter Eason’s home on the afternoon of August 11th, staring into the perspiring face of Walt Eason. He had come here hoping to find some spark of human compassion within this man—but there was no compassion in a man such as this one, he reminded himself, and he knew that he should have known it. What Walt’s son had done to a decent, God-fearing woman those weeks before was beyond redemption—Esther Tipton had kept the secret locked inside herself until she could keep it no longer, and had at last turned to Edward because he was her pastor.
Esther had been violently abused by Buddy Eason.
What made the horror only worse was that she believed now she was with child.
Edward had known Esther Tipton since she was a girl, had seen her care for her father after her mother died, and then for a failing aunt after her father passed away. She had always been a big girl and an unattractive one, and Edward knew it was unlikely she had ever kissed a man or been touched by one in her thirty-some-odd years, until what Buddy Eason had done to her—and now it was possible she was with child, by a white man who had used her against her will.
Walt Eason had not spoken since Edward’s words. Rivulets of sweat moved down his cheeks, but he did not try to wipe them away. When he spoke at last, Edward realized that he should have expected the words.
“If some nigger gal has gotten herself in trouble, my son had nothing to do with it,” he said quietly, at last reaching into a pocket of his trousers to pull out a handkerchief and mop the sweat from his face.
“Your son violated a decent—”
“My son had nothing to do with—” But he seemed to realize suddenly he was shouting.
Reverend Jakes stared at him, no longer knowing what it was he had expected when he had come here today.
“You can go and tell that black whore that she won’t get anything out of me or Buddy either one—and if I ever hear even once that she’s spoken Buddy’s name—”
“She doesn’t even know that I came here, but your son has to be held responsible—”
“How do you know he’s responsible?” Walt Eason asked, and Edward was surprised to see the ugliness that suddenly twisted the man’s features. “I can find ten men, white and colored both, who will say they were with her that day.”
Then the ugliness became a smirk.
“I can find ten men who will say you were with her as well.”
Reverend Jakes could only stare at him, certain that he was looking into the face of pure evil.
“May God forgive you,” was all that he could say. “May God forgive you.”
Buddy was with his grandfather at the mill that afternoon when Cassandra Price tapped at the door.
“Yes?” Walter Eason asked, looking up from the ledgers on the desktop between himself and his grandson. Buddy sat back, relieved at the interruption—the old man had to be going senile already, he thought, to think Buddy would even care how the mill was doing. There was nothing of interest in the place anyway, just noisy machinery and mildewy offices, and the fun he had had with Cassandra Price for a time had quickly cooled—she was too ready to get laid now, he told himself, and there was no fun in that.
Cassandra opened the door, smiling as her eyes came to rest on Buddy. She ran her tongue over her lips to wet them before she spoke. “Buddy, your father wants you to call him,” she said, then continued to stand in the doorway, looking in.
“Is there anything else, Cassandra?” Buddy heard the annoyance come into his grandfather’s voice as he spoke to her, as it seemed to do often lately.
“No, Mr. Eason, that’s all.”
“Then you may go.”
She closed the door.
Walter Eason rose and took up his cane. “Use the telephone in here if you want. I’ve got to go check on the new fixer.”
Buddy watched until the door was shut between them, then moved to sit with one hip on the edge of the old man’s desk,
exactly as he knew his grandfather hated, then he reached for the handset of the telephone. Within seconds he heard the door open and close again, and he knew without turning that it had to be Cassandra—she was wearing too much perfume, as she usually did. He felt her arms go around him from behind and her tongue go into his free ear just as his father picked up the telephone.
“What do you want?” Buddy asked him, wasting no time on preliminaries.
“Come home, I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Come home, now,” Walt Eason said, his voice rising. Buddy felt Cassandra’s hand slide down between his legs for a moment before she came around to stand before him. She smiled, then began to unbutton her blouse. Buddy watched until she had it open and had slid her brassiere straps down to expose her small breasts to him.
“Sure, I’ll come home,” he said, smiling at her. Then he watched the look that came to her face at the remainder of his words. “There’s nothing worth staying here to do anyway.”
Cassandra hurriedly buttoned her blouse and shoved it down into her skirt as Buddy walked out and left the door open—the goddamn son-of-a-bitch, she thought, anger filling her. She had been certain she was pregnant the month before, but then her monthly had started. She bled and cramped and cursed him every step of the way—it was all his fault; she was certain of it. He had hardly touched her since since that first time, and what he had wanted to do the few times they had been together she had not liked doing at all—she’d never get pregnant doing that, she told herself, but she had been unable to refuse him.
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