“Go t bed, honey. Yuh tired.”
“Naw; Ahm awright, An Sue.”
She heard the bottom of Reva’s empty cup clank against the top of the stove. Ah got t make her go t bed! Yes; Booker would tell the names of the comrades to the sheriff. If she could only stop him some way! That was the answer, the point, the star that grew bright in the morning of new hope. Soon, maybe half an hour from now, Booker would reach Foley’s Woods. Hes boun t go the long way, cause he don know no short cut, she thought. Ah could wade the creek n beat im there…. But what would she do after that?
“Reva, honey, go t bed. Ahm awright. Yuh need res.”
“Ah ain sleepy, An Sue.”
“Ah knows whuts bes fer yuh, chile. Yuh tired n wet.”
“Ah wanna stay up wid yuh.”
She forced a smile and said:
“Ah don think they gonna hurt Johnny-Boy…”
“Fer real, An Sue?”
“Sho, honey.”
“But Ah wanna wait up wid yuh.”
“Thas mah job, honey. Thas whut a mas fer, t wait up fer her chullun.”
“Good night, An Sue.”
“Good night, honey.”
She watched Reva pull up and leave the kitchen; presently she heard the shucks in the mattress whispering, and she knew that Reva had gone to bed. She was alone. Through the cracks of the stove she saw the fire dying to grey ashes; the room was growing cold again. The yellow beacon continued to flit past the window and the rain still drummed. Yes; she was alone; she had done this awful thing alone; she must find some way out, alone. Like touching a festering sore, she put her finger upon that moment when she had shouted her defiance to the sheriff, when she had shouted to feel her strength. She had lost Sug to save others; she had let Johnny-Boy go to save others; and then in a moment of weakness that came from too much strength she had lost all. If she had not shouted to the sheriff, she would have been strong enough to have resisted Booker; she would have been able to tell the comrades herself. Something tightened in her as she remembered and understood the fit of fear she had felt on coming to herself in the dark hallway. A part of her life she thought she had done away with forever had had hold of her then. She had thought the soft, warm past was over; she had thought that it did not mean much when now she sang: “Hes the Lily of the Valley, the Bright n Mawnin Star” …The days when she had sung that song were the days when she had not hoped for anything on this earth, the days when the cold mountain had driven her into the arms of Jesus. She had thought that Sug and Johnny-Boy had taught her to forget Him, to fix her hope upon the fight of black men for freedom. Through the gradual years she had believed and worked with them, had felt strength shed from the grace of their terrible vision. That grace had been upon her when she had let the sheriff slap her down; it had been upon her when she had risen time and again from the floor and faced him. But she had trapped herself with her own hunger; to water the long dry thirst of her faith her pride had made a bargain which her flesh could not keep. Her having told the names of Johnny-Boy’s comrades was but an incident in a deeper horror. She stood up and looked at the floor while call and counter-call, loyalty and counter-loyalty struggled in her soul. Mired she was between two abandoned worlds, living, but dying without the strength of the grace that either gave. The clearer she felt it the fuller did something well up from the depths of her for release; the more urgent did she feel the need to fling into her black sky another star, another hope, one more terrible vision to give her told strength to live and act. Softly and restlessly she walked about the kitchen, feeling herself naked against the night, the rain, the world; and shamed whenever the thought of Reva’s love crossed her mind. She lifted her empty hands and looked at her writhing fingers. Lawd, whut kin Ah do now? She could still wade the creek and get to Foley’s Woods before Booker. And then what? How could she manage to see Johnny-Boy or Booker? Again she heard the sheriff’s threatening voice: Git yuh a sheet, cause hes gonna be dead! The sheet! Thas it, the sheet! Her whole being leaped with will; the long years of her life bent toward a moment of focus, a point. Ah kin go wid mah sheet! Ahll be doin whut he said! Lawd Gawd in Heaven, Ahma go lika nigger woman wid mah windin sheet t git mah dead son! But then what? She stood straight and smiled grimly; she had in her heart the whole meaning of her life; her entire personality was poised on the brink of a total act. Ah know! Ah know! She thought of Johnny-Boy’s gun in the dresser drawer. Ahll hide the gun in the sheet n go aftah Johnny-Boys body…. She tiptoed to her room, eased out the dresser drawer, and got a sheet. Reva was sleeping; the darkness was filled with her quiet breathing. She groped in the drawer and found the gun. She wound the gun in the sheet and held them both under her apron. Then she stole to the bedside and watched Reva. Lawd, hep her! But mabbe shes bettah off. This had t happen sometimes… She n Johnny-Boy couldna been together in this here South… N Ah couldnt tell her bout Booker. Itll come out awright n she wont nevah know. Reva’s trust would never be shaken. She caught her breath as the shucks in the mattress rustled dryly; then all was quiet and she breathed easily again. She tiptoed to the door, down the hall, and stood on the porch. Above her the yellow beacon whirled through the rain. She went over muddy ground, mounted a slope, stopped and looked back at her house. The lamp glowed in her window, and the yellow beacon that swung every few seconds seemed to feed it with light. She turned and started across the fields, holding the gun and sheet tightly, thinking, Po Reva… Po critter… Shes fas ersleep…
VI
For the most part she walked with her eyes half shut, her lips tightly compressed, leaning her body against the wind and the driving rain, feeling the pistol in the sheet sagging cold and heavy in her fingers. Already she was getting wet; it seemed that her feet found every puddle of water that stood between the corn rows.
She came to the edge of the creek and paused, wondering at what point was it low. Taking the sheet from under her apron, she wrapped the gun in it so that her finger could be upon the trigger. Ahll cross here, she thought. At first she did not feel the water; her feet were already wet. But the water grew cold as it came up to her knees; she gasped when it reached her waist. Lawd, this creeks high! When she had passed the middle, she knew that she was out of danger. She came out of the water, climbed a grassy hill, walked on, turned a bend and saw the lights of autos gleaming ahead. Yeah; theys still there! She hurried with her head down. Wondah did Ah beat im here? Lawd, Ah hope so! A vivid image of Booker’s white face hovered a moment before her eyes and a surging will rose up in her so hard and strong that it vanished. She was among the autos now. From nearby came the hoarse voices of the men.
“Hey, yuh!”
She stopped, nervously clutching the sheet. Two white men with shotguns came toward her.
“Whut in hell yuh doin out here?”
She did not answer.
“Didnt yuh hear somebody speak t yuh?”
“Ahm comin aftah mah son,” she said humbly.
“Yo son?”
“Yessuh.”
“Whut yo son doin out here?”
“The sheriffs got im.”
“Holy Scott! Jim, its the niggers ma!”
“Whut yuh got there?” asked one.
“A sheet.”
“A sheet?”
“Yessuh.”
“Fer whut?”
“The sheriff tol me t bring a sheet t git his body.”
“Waal, waal…”
“Now, ain tha somethin?”
The white men looked at each other.
“These niggers sho love one ernother,” said one.
“N tha ain no lie,” said the other.
“Take me t the sheriff,” she begged.
“Yuh ain givin us orders, is yuh?”
“Nawsuh.”
“We’ll take yuh when wes good n ready.”
“Yessuh.”
“So yuh wan his body?”
“Yessuh.”
“Waal, he ain dead yit.”
“They gonna kill i
m,” she said.
“Ef he talks they wont.”
“He ain gonna talk,” she said.
“How yuh know?”
“Cause he ain.”
“We got ways of makin niggers talk.”
“Yuh ain got no way fer im.”
“Yuh thinka lot of that black Red, don yuh?”
“Hes mah son.”
“Why don yuh teach im some sense?”
“Hes mah son,” she said again.
“Lissen, ol nigger woman, yuh stand there wid yo hair white. Yuh got bettah sense than t believe tha niggers kin make a revolution…”
“A black republic,” said the other one, laughing.
“Take me t the sheriff,” she begged.
“Yuh his ma,” said one. “Yuh kin make im talk n tell whos in this thing wid im.”
“He ain gonna talk,” she said.
“Don yuh wan im t live?”
She did not answer.
“C mon, les take her t Bradley.”
They grabbed her arms and she clutched hard at the sheet and gun; they led her toward the crowd in the woods. Her feelings were simple; Booker would not tell; she was there with the gun to see to that. The louder became the voices of the men the deeper became her feeling of wanting to right the mistake she had made; of wanting to fight her way back to solid ground. She would stall for time until Booker showed up. Oh, ef theyll only lemme git close t Johnny-Boy! As they led her near the crowd she saw white faces turning and looking at her and heard a rising clamor of voices.
“Whos tha?”
“A nigger woman!”
“Whut she doin out here?”
“This is his ma!” called one of the men.
“Whut she wans?”
“She brought a sheet t cover his body!”
“He ain dead yit!”
“They tryin t make im talk!”
“But he will be dead soon ef he don open up!”
“Say, look! The niggers ma brought a sheet t cover up his body!”
“Now, ain that sweet?”
“Mabbe she wans t hol a prayer meetin!”
“Did she git a preacher?”
“Say, go git Bradley!”
“O.K.!”
The crowd grew quiet. They looked at her curiously; she felt their cold eyes trying to detect some weakness in her. Humbly, she stood with the sheet covering the gun. She had already accepted all that they could do to her.
The sheriff came.
“So yuh brought yo sheet, hunh?”
“Yessuh,” she whispered.
“Looks like them slaps we gave yuh learned yuh some sense, didnt they?”
She did not answer.
“Yuh don need tha sheet. Yo son ain dead yit,” he said, reaching toward her.
She backed away, her eyes wide.
“Naw!”
“Now, lissen, Anty!” he said. “There ain no use in yuh ackin a fool! Go in there n tell tha nigger son of yos t tell us whos in this wid im, see? Ah promise we wont kill im ef he talks. We’ll let im git outta town.”
“There ain nothin Ah kin tell im,” she said.
“Yuh wan us t kill im?”
She did not answer. She saw someone lean toward the sheriff and whisper.
“Bring her erlong,” the sheriff said.
They led her to a muddy clearing. The rain streamed down through the ghostly glare of the flashlights. As the men formed a semi-circle she saw Johnny-Boy lying in a trough of mud. He was tied with rope; he lay hunched and one side of his face rested in a pool of black water. His eyes were staring questioningly at her.
“Speak t im,” said the sheriff.
If she could only tell him why she was here! But that was impossible; she was close to what she wanted and she stared straight before her with compressed lips.
“Say, nigger!” called the sheriff, kicking Johnny-Boy. “Heres yo ma!”
Johnny-Boy did not move or speak. The sheriff faced her again.
“Lissen, Anty,” he said. “Yuh got mo say wid im than anybody. Tell im t talk n hava chance. Whut he wanna pertect the other niggers n white folks fer?”
She slid her finger about the trigger of the gun and looked stonily at the mud.
“Go t him,” said the sheriff.
She did not move. Her heart was crying out to answer the amazed question in Johnny-Boy’s eyes. But there was no way now.
“Waal, yuhre astin fer it. By Gawd, we gotta way to make yuh talk t im,” he said, turning away. “Say, Tim, git one of them logs n turn that nigger upside-down n put his legs on it!”
A murmur of assent ran through the crowd. She bit her lips; she knew what that meant.
“Yuh wan yo nigger son crippled?” she heard the sheriff ask.
She did not answer. She saw them roll the log up; they lifted Johnny-Boy and laid him on his face and stomach, then they pulled his legs over the log. His knee-caps rested on the sheer top of the log’s back and the toes of his shoes pointed groundward. So absorbed was she in watching that she felt that it was she who was being lifted and made ready for torture.
“Git a crowbar!” said the sheriff.
A tall, lank man got a crowbar from a nearby auto and stood over the log. His jaws worked slowly on a wad of tobacco.
“Now, its up t yuh, Anty,” the sheriff said. “Tell the man whut t do!”
She looked into the rain. The sheriff turned.
“Mabbe she think wes playin. Ef she don say nothin, then break em at the knee-caps!”
“O.K., Sheriff!”
She stood waiting for Booker. Her legs felt weak; she wondered if she would be able to wait much longer. Over and over she said to herself, Ef he came now Ahd kill em both!
“She ain sayin nothin, Sheriff!”
“Waal, Gawddammit, let im have it!”
The crowbar came down and Johnny-Boy’s body lunged in the mud and water. There was a scream. She swayed, holding tight to the gun and sheet.
“Hol im! Git the other leg!”
The crowbar fell again. There was another scream.
“Yuh break em?” asked the sheriff.
The tall man lifted Johnny-Boy’s legs and let them drop limply again, dropping rearward from the knee-caps. Johnny-Boy’s body lay still. His head had rolled to one side and she could not see his face.
“Jus lika broke sparrow wing,” said the man, laughing softly.
Then Johnny-Boy’s face turned to her; he screamed.
“Go way, ma! Go way!”
It was the first time she had heard his voice since she had come out to the woods; she all but lost control of herself. She started violently forward, but the sheriff’s arm checked her.
“Aw, naw! Yuh had yo chance!” He turned to Johnny-Boy. “She kin go ef yuh talk.”
“Mistah, he ain gonna talk,” she said.
“Go way, ma!” said Johnny-Boy.
“Shoot im! Don make im suffah so,” she begged.
“He’ll either talk or he’ll never hear yuh ergin,” the sheriff said. “Theres other things we kin do t im.”
She said nothing.
“What yuh come here fer, ma?” Johnny-Boy sobbed.
“Ahm gonna split his eardrums,” the sheriff said. “Ef yuh got anythin t say t im yuh bettah say it now!”
She closed her eyes. She heard the sheriff’s feet sucking in mud. Ah could save im! She opened her eyes; there were shouts of eagerness from the crowd as it pushed in closer.
“Bus em, Sheriff!”
“Fix im so he cant hear!”
“He knows how t do it, too!”
“He busted a Jew boy tha way once!”
She saw the sheriff stoop over Johnny-Boy, place his flat palm over one ear and strike his fist against it with all his might. He placed his palm over the other ear and struck again. Johnny-Boy moaned, his head rolling from side to side, his eyes showing white amazement in a world without sound.
“Yuh wouldnt talk t im when yuh had the chance,” said the sheriff. “Try n talk now
.”
She felt warm tears on her cheeks. She longed to shoot Johnny-Boy and let him go. But if she did that they would take the gun from her, and Booker would tell who the others were. Lawd, hep me! The men were talking loudly now, as though the main business was over. It seemed ages that she stood there watching Johnny-Boy roll and whimper in his world of silence.
“Say, Sheriff, heres somebody lookin fer yuh!”
“Who is it?”
“Ah don know!”
“Bring em in!”
She stiffened and looked around wildly, holding the gun tight. Is tha Booker? Then she held still, feeling that her excitement might betray her. Mabbe Ah kin shoot em both! Mabbe Ah kin shoot twice! The sheriff stood in front of her, waiting. The crowd parted and she saw Booker hurrying forward.
“Ah know em all, Sheriff!” he called.
He came full into the muddy clearing where Johnny-Boy lay.
“Yuh mean yuh got the names?”
“Sho! The ol nigger…”
She saw his lips hang open and silent when he saw her. She stepped forward and raised the sheet.
“Whut…”
She fired, once; then, without pausing, she turned, hearing them yell. She aimed at Johnny-Boy, but they had their arms around her, bearing her to the ground, clawing at the sheet in her hand. She glimpsed Booker lying sprawled in the mud, on his face, his hands stretched out before him; then a cluster of yelling men blotted him out. She lay without struggling, looking upward through the rain at the white faces above her. And she was suddenly at peace; they were not a white mountain now; they were not pushing her any longer to the edge of life. Its awright…
“She shot Booker!”
“She hada gun in the sheet!”
“She shot im right thu the head!”
“Whut she shoot im fer?”
“Kill the bitch!”
“Ah thought somethin wuz wrong bout her!”
“Ah wuz fer givin it t her from the firs!”
“Thas whut yuh git fer treatin a nigger nice!”
“Say, Bookers dead!”
She stopped looking into the white faces, stopped listening. She waited, giving up her life before they took it from her; she had done what she wanted. Ef only Johnny-Boy… She looked at him; he lay looking at her with tired eyes. Ef she could only tell im! But he lay already buried in a grave of silence.
Uncle Tom's Children Page 24