Don't Worry About the Kids

by Jay Neugeboren

  “Ah, c’mon,” he says, his neck jerk out of his shirt like a turtle. “Stop kiddin’ around. He was just a nigra—nutty one too.”

  “This is Connorsville, Virginia,” the Sheriff says. “It ain’t Miss’ssippi and it ain’t even Alabama.”

  Ed Robinson screws up his face like he don’t quite get what the Sheriff trying to say. He chuckles some to hisself, though. “Hell, I’ll just say it was self-defense, Jim—no jury round here gonna hang a white man for killin’ a nigra.”

  “Maybe not,” the Sheriff says.

  Then Ed Robinson leans forward, touches the Sheriff on the back. “C’mon—you ain’t serious, are you, Jim?”

  “Get your hands off me. Pull him back, Homer. You got a job back there—do it.”

  “Yes sir, cap’n,” I say, yank my wrist hard and Ed Robinson hit against the back of the seat, glare at me and I feeling pretty good, helping the Sheriff this way. Ed Robinson, he don’t say much the rest of the trip, we get him to the office, though, you can tell he been cooking something under his skull.

  “Thought you liked to keep this place empty,” he says.

  “That’s right.”

  “C’mon, Jim—I know I put you on a spot and if I could take the whole thing back I would—but you only gonna be making more trouble for yourself, you lock me up.”

  “Maybe,” the Sheriff says, sits down at his desk.

  Ed Robinson breathes easy, seeing he ain’t locked up yet. The Sheriff tosses me the keys, tells me to take the cuffs off. I get them off, move quick to the other side of the room.

  “Look,” Ed Robinson says. “You let me go and who’s gonna know the difference? None of the boys with me ever gonna tell—nobody but us knows I did it—and the niggers around here, they respect you, they won’t push. I mean, who’s gonna know the difference?”

  “Me,” I say. “I’ll know.” Then I look around real quick cause I ain’t sure where those words come from. The Sheriff and Ed Robinson, they booth look at me about as surprised as I am. The Sheriff he chew on his lip, just keep staring at me, wondering if he can understand me any better than I do. Ed Robinson, though, he starts laughing.

  “Homer—” He waves his hand, brushes his hair back. “Everybody in this town knows he does what you tell him, Jim. Why the way I hear it, the N-double-A-C-P, they gettin’ ready to prosecute you for slave-holding!” He laughs some more, a kind of crazy laugh, he got to sit down. “Look, Jim,” he says, “I mean, you and me, we known each other a long time, right? And in this town we got things pretty good—nice and quiet, no trouble, you want to have a personal slave, you don’t hear anybody holler, right?” He wags his finger at the Sheriff, I think to myself, you doing the wrong thing, Mister Robinson, don’t be shaking your finger at the Sheriff. “But you put a white man on trial here for killin’ a nigger, you gonna have that N-double-A-C-P down your neck for sure. They gonna come in here with their TV and their newspapers, make a hero out of that crazy James and before you know it, you gonna have the federal government buttin’ in too.” He closes his eyes narrow. “That James, like I say, we all know he ain’t held together right in his head, but he was connected up with them groups up North and in Washington, and they gonna come down here, this town never be the same—ain’t nobody gonna be thanking you for that. They gonna start messin’ with our schools and they be wantin’ niggers on the jury—oh yeah, you gonna have real trouble, Jim. And for what?” He stops talking. I look at the Sheriff, then back at Ed Robinson, then to the Sheriff. I feeling a little dizzy, count of what he say about me.

  “You be committin’ suicide, you run a trial here,” Ed Robinson says. But he ain’t getting any reaction from the Sheriff. He keeps trying, though. Scratches his chin and laughs. “Okay, okay—you know something? Not for the fact of all the trouble it make for everybody I’d kind of like the chance to testify in court. Never done that. You should of seen the way that James was carrying on—I’ll tell you something—you can bet your best pair of boots I’d have that jury rolling in the aisle, imitatin’ how he was going on—” He wags his finger again and I feel this nerve along my shoulder start heart-beating. “Long as things are peaceful here, long as you keep order, people stay pretty tolerant, Jim. They don’t care too much how you go about doing it. But once they think this civil rights stuff gonna invade our town, you be surprised how quick they get together. Like I say, not for the trouble that’d come, I’d kind of like the chance to sit up there in the courthouse. Only I’d be the one they’d make a hero, Jim, and you better believe that.” He stops. The Sheriff, I sure don’t want to be him now, damned if he do and damned if he don’t. Ed Robinson, he feeling good. He stands up and stretches, laughs nice and easy like him and the Sheriff good buddies again and he going to do his best to get the Sheriff off the hook. “Hell, Jim,” he says. “You did the same thing yourself, you and me used to run around together.” The Sheriff’s eyes shift real quick, Ed Robinson see it too. “Things were different in those days, huh, Jim? I mean, I’m as sorry as I can be I put you in a fix—but I’m remembering the time, wouldn’t of been no fix at all to take after a nigra. Remember in high school, we had nothin’ to do on a Saturday night, we used to get those chains and ride around looking for a stray one?” He looks kind of wild in his eyes, remembering. “Jesus, I remember that time you got that big black boy out behind the old stone quarry. Some job you did on him—”

  The Sheriff, he’s done thinking. “Go on home, Ed,” he says, real calm, but Ed Robinson, he a little surprised, hear the words so sudden.

  “You mean it?”

  “Unless you want me to keep you here—for your own protection. I’ll do that, if you want.”

  Ed Robinson, he only been putting up a front, you can see now, cause he starts laughing kind of hysterical, he so relieved. “Who’s gonna touch me?” he asks. “That’s a good one, Jim—for my own protection!”

  “I thought maybe you were scared the nigras might find out—”

  Ed Robinson howls now, slaps his knee. “That’ll be the day, won’t it though,” he says. “When the niggers go after us. Why when that day comes, Jim, lemme tell you, I’ll say okay, set ’em all free, let ’em eat where I eat, live where I live, drink where I drink. I’ll say set em all free—even Homer here.”

  “Go on home, Ed,” the Sheriff says again. I ain’t looking up, the room turning kind of sideways, I not sure what I want to do to Ed Robinson, but it something awful.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sheriff,” I say when Ed Robinson gone. I head for the door.

  “Stay put, goddamn you!” the Sheriff says.

  “Yes sir, cap’n,” I say.

  He stands up, real angry—I didn’t see how angry he is till now. “And stop saying that, hear? ‘Yes sir, cap’n, yes sir, cap’n’—it’s driving me crazy—!

  “Yes—” But that as far as I get, I get control of my mouth, stop the rest.

  “Goddamn, just goddamn,” the Sheriff says, walks around the room some. His jaw, it set so hard, he gonna break something. I scared of him now, afraid I gonna say the wrong thing. He come up close to me after a while, jab my chest with his finger. “You know where Ed Robinson lives?” he asks.

  “Yes sir, cap’n,” I say, and then he lets me have it—wham! I go flying, knock down a whole bunch of guns and things. The floor goes backwards and I slide some, the whole world racing around me and I got to catch hold onto something.

  “Get up!” he says. “Goddamn you, get up!”

  It a mystery to me, but his words they get me up. He don’t look sorry at all. He just takes hold on my jacket and shakes me. “Do you?—And don’t say it: just nod your head.”

  I nod my head. I know where Ed Robinson lives.

  “Okay. Let’s go.” I fix my hat on the back of my head and go with him into the car, I see we heading back for Lucius’s house, I try not to think on what’s coming.

  “Tell me something, Homer,” he says, half-way there, just talking like nothing been happening. “You like it
in the Army?”

  “Oh yes—” I say, stop the rest of that sentence. “I like the Army. Would of stayed in it, not for what happened. It’s good in the Army.”

  “What happened?” he asks. I slide toward the door, look out the window, it the first time he ask me this, and I know it ain’t no use, so I tell him how this cook, I in the kitchen always making jokes to keep everybody laughing, but I go too far this one time—say something about his girl, a joke about a guy going in a camera store, gets asked what size camera he got. Only I so nervous now, I get all the funny parts about the Brownie and the box messed up, and the Sheriff don’t get it. But I tell him that was how it happened, this guy got so mad he throw this chopper at me, right there in the kitchen, lay me out flat, I never even known what did it till they tell me at the hospital. I tell most people it happen while we killing Japs with tanks.

  The Sheriff nods like he filing my story away, some of his anger gone, but we get to the house, he stride right up to the porch, I got to hustle to get inside with him.

  “You can bury James when you want,” he tells Lucius’s mother. “We won’t need an autopsy.” She looks at him and the Sheriff lets out some breath, then speaks quick. “Okay, okay. There won’t be any trial, either,” and he turns direct and I hurry out after him. Aunt Emma, she still singing.

  Outside the Sheriff looks at me and I look back at him. “It’s the only way, Homer,” he says. “You get Lucius, say I need him to do some packing down by the office—they’ll be glad to get him off their hands. I’ll drive you out a ways, you do the rest by yourself.” He don’t look right at me no more. “Can you do the job, Homer?”

  I don’t got to think. “Yes sir,” I say. “Me and Lucius, we put our sense together this time, we do the job for you.”

  “You’ll explain to Lucius—about not talking?”

  “Don’t you worry none, Sheriff,” I say. “You done lots for us. You a good friend to the colored people.”

  “Sure,” he says, but you can tell he don’t believe it. “Sure.” He shakes his head. There ain’t no anger in him now. He just seem tired and old. I forget how old he is sometimes, he so big and quick. “God help us all,” he says.

  “Ed Robinson ain’t no good,” I say to him. “Lucius get him anyway somehow, Sheriff.”

  “Goddamn him,” the Sheriff says, I ain’t sure if he means Lucius or Ed Robinson. “Just goddamn him.” Then he looks at me strange. “Am I doing the right thing, Homer?” he asks. My cap, it pressing on my head, his face sways some in front of me. He starts to grab my jacket but stops. “Am I? It’s important. Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  “Yes sir,” I say. “Yes sir, cap’n.”

  He don’t seem to mind me saying that again, it’s something else don’t satisfy him this time. “The truth—” he says, grabs me and looks like he gonna get mad all over again. “Goddamn you—give me a straight answer. It’s important, damn it. Do you think I’m doing the right thing, Homer?”

  “Yes sir,” I say, answering the best I know how. “Yes sir, cap’n. You doing the best you can.”

  “Oh goddamn you,” he says, shoves me away. “Just goddamn you.” I wishing I could tell him other things now, but it only upset him, I figure. The Sheriff, he real good to me. My head still turning some, thinking on what gonna be, but I don’t got to look, and like the Sheriff says, it’s the only way. The Sheriff, he knows Ed Robinson ain’t the guy to keep shut on a thing like this. That’s for sure. Maybe he don’t trust me neither. He let Ed Robinson get off free, we all gonna be in for worse troubles, how he ever gonna keep order? Like I say, I wishing I could tell him other things now. What I like to do is tell him how if he die before I do, I go out to his grave all the time, make sure they tend to it right, but I don’t figure he wants to know about this none. I thinking about it, though. “Go on,” he says to me. “Go on.”

  “Yes sir, cap’n,” I say and go in the house, say what I have to and get Lucius. The Sheriff gonna drive us partway, wait to drive us back after. “Let’s go, Lucius,” I whisper upstairs, he must of got some needles from the doctor, he sitting on his bed pretty calm and big, humming to hisself the song Aunt Emma singing about his brother. “C’mon, Lucius,” I say. “You got to dig up your knife.”

  The Year Between

  WHEN THE IDEA first occurred to Mark Goldman—that he and his wife should live apart for a year, and that, afterward, they should never reveal to anyone, not even to each other, what they did during that year—he was certain he was borrowing it from an early short story by Henry James. The story he recalled seemed to him a typical Jamesian ghost story in which, at the end, after the husband and wife are reunited, the husband is slowly driven mad by his desire to know, and not knowing, to create, in painful detail, each hour and day, in his wife’s life, of the missing year.

  Mark mentioned the story to several colleagues in the English Department at Amherst College; he went through the complete New York edition of James’s stories and short novels, and then through the periodicals in which the stories had originally appeared. He found nothing.

  “Then you must have made it up yourself,” Janet said to him one evening, before dinner. He noticed that her cheeks, usually pale, were flushed. “And I think it’s wonderful that you did—haven’t I always said you had a marvelous imagination, if only you’d give it a chance?”

  “I suppose so,” he replied. “But listen. Give me your opinion. I’ve been thinking that maybe—maybe I should write the story myself—”

  “Or maybe—” she said then, her eyes shining “—maybe we should live it.”

  He leaned toward her, his mouth half-open in astonishment—she had, he knew, spoken for his own silent thoughts—and when she laughed, he found that he was laughing with her. “Do you really think so?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She seemed surprised by her own reply. “Yes. I suppose I do,” she said, setting down her glass of sherry. She came to him and sat on his lap. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and slid her hand inside. She rubbed his chest gently, and he could feel the warmth of her thighs through the thin cloth of her spring dress. “We’re free,” she said. “Don’t you see? We can do whatever we want.”

  “1 suppose so,” he said. “But you’re not really serious, are you? I mean, for a story it might be a terrific idea—a couple renewing themselves by inventing a ghost, by infusing their lives with the mystery it lacks, but to actually live out…”

  She rested her head against his chest. “Oh Mark, why not?” she pleaded, softly. “Why not? It’s just the thing we need, don’t you see? It would be—” she laughed at the Jamesian phrase “—the great thing in our lives.”

  The next evening, after dinner, they sat in their living room and talked again. She had never seemed more beautiful to him. It was as if, he thought, his idea had somehow melted that cool New England reserve of hers that had, through the years, often infuriated him. He told her so and she smiled, allowing for the truth of what he said. Hadn’t she always believed in his imagination? His mind, he admitted, did take flights at times, as it had been doing all day, and sometimes those flights brought with them painful questions. Would she mind if he asked her a simple question—would she answer him honestly? In all their years in Amherst, he wanted to know, had she ever been in love with anyone else?

  “No.”

  He nodded, swallowed hard. “Even when we were first married,” he confessed, “I used to fear that I wasn’t enough for you, that I could never satisfy you. Did you know that?” He sighed. “I used to watch the way your eyes would flicker sideways sometimes when you were smiling at others—at faculty parties, or concerts. Sometimes when you were gone in the afternoon with your women friends, I’d sneak out and drive around town, afraid—wishing, I suppose you’d say—that I’d find you with another man.”

  She made circles on his chest with her fingertip. “You’re sweet,” she said. “You’re very sweet, Mark. But no, despite the phantoms of your imagination
, I’ve never been with another man. But tell me what you discovered today. Please? Don’t let me-” she smiled “—hang fire forever—”

  He told her that he had continued his researches in the Frost Library during the afternoon, but had discovered nothing. The story was, he concluded—like the missing year—a ghost. “I like ghosts,” she said. Then she shuddered, and gestured to the darkened room. “What, really, do we have to lose?” she asked. “Sometimes I just get so scared for the emptiness of our life, Mark. Living here year after year, without children, without—please let’s try it. Please?”

  “But if we actually did it—I mean, be realistic, Janet—how could we face each other afterward?” he asked. “Acts have consequences—isn’t that the point? If James had written the story, wouldn’t that have been the point? That we’re never really free, not even in our imaginations.” He shrugged. “I know us too well. We’re just too normal and moral—too possessive, too monogamous, too—”

  “That’s right,” she said, and he heard a familiar coldness enter her voice. “That’s exactly right.”

  He kissed her forehead, then recited the line he had often recited to her in their early years: “What do you think—can an intense Jewish boy from the streets of Brooklyn find contentment in the arms of the frail and beautiful daughter of a dying New England clergyman?”

  “Can he?” she asked. Her body was very still now, against his own. “Tell me that, please. Can he, Mark? Did he?”

  She took his face between her hands and kissed him. Her lips were warm. She flicked his tongue lightly with her own, and he felt himself harden at once. He closed his eyes and he saw her as she had been fifteen years before, in the sunlit bedroom of the parsonage, washing her father’s gaunt face with a damp cloth. Such tenderness! He had, watching her from the doorway, held his breath. He had loved her most in that moment, he knew, when she had not been aware of his presence. He had longed to have her care for him with such single-minded and intense gentleness. And after the tenderness, he recalled, in her bedroom upstairs, such passion; and all the while their bodies were clasped together, her father was below them, dying and dreaming.