by Vin Packer
The stranger leaned back against the back seat and remembered the look in Duboe Chandler’s eyes; remembered the perspiration dotting his forehead and the way he had perched on the stool at the soda fountain, cracking his knuckles, saying, “A-yeah, a-yeah,” in that dry, husky tone, licking the corner of his parched lips, listening, listening.
It was going to be easy. Had he ever doubted it?
The stranger crossed his long legs, letting his foot swing and idly kick the tall pile of white pamphlets. It was cracker country, after all, filled and spilling with red-necked peckerwoods and poor white mud-eaters. All they needed was someone to tell them.
The stranger thought of a poem he had written once:
Little, puny illiterati,
Chump, dingbat, bone-top, block,
Fool! You are of value
As my tool.
I can use you,
And amuse you,
And excuse you,
(As a rule).
Goof, woodhead, prize sap, dolt,
Asses! You are the voice
Of the masses.
I shall need you
I shall lead you
I shall bleed you,
Lads and lasses.
What had his professor written across the top of the paper when he had handed it back to him? “Sounds like a bad attack of indigestion, Mr. Buddy.”
Not everyone understood; not many did. But a few did; one in particular — Lenny Gold.
Lenny Gold had said once: “You make me afraid, Buddy. You scare the hell out of me!”
Lenny Gold understood, and before very long he’d have a lot of company.
3.
There’s some here’bouts who favors being dissected, but I don’t study dissectation issues. I am busy occupying my mind in enough ways as is.
— Ginny Towers
ONE of the ways Ginny Towers occupied her mind at the end of the work day, as she made her way down the bumpy dirt road to Puddin’ Nelly in the dark, was to mull over every little thing that had happened up at Mister Jack’s. In fact, life at Mister Jack’s house not only occupied her mind all the time, more than any other thing, it kept her in a state of perpetual preoccupation. She’d go along doing whatever she was doing and thinking thoughts like: Must be dey had demselves some kinduv arg’ment las night, way they bangin’ them coffee cups down on de saucers s’morning. Wonder what about?
Or, scrubbing the back porch in the afternoon: How come Miz Cass wear red so much de time? All de time wear red like dat. Seem silly, all de colors pick from, pick red time, time again.
And, down doing the marketing along Court Street: Mister Jack like his breakfuss coffee awright. Drink three, four, five cups de stuff. Nebber known nuther man liked his coffee s’well as Mister Jack. Don’t see how he don’t help but git the runs drinkin it cup after cup dat way, first thing the mornin’.
Then finishing up the dishes in the evening: Shame ‘bout dat chile of ders. Eyes nebber seen de light. Poor blind kiddy, ‘n dey jest carry right on like dey don’t mind de least. ‘N he hoppin’ around like de whole world jest like him, laughin’ ‘n all.
Day in day out it was “up at Mister Jack’s,” whether she was remembering what had gone on when she was there, or whether she was there, and though everyone in Puddin’ Nelly spoke of their bosses and their ladies, the consensus was that Ginny Lee Polk Ann Towers never could think up another subject. Turner Towers, her older brother — in Ginny’s mind, an uppity nigger if there ever was one — used to try to explain to her that she ought to think of herself as an individual, as Ginny Lee Polk Ann Towers, age, early twenties; religion, Baptist; marital status, hopeful; and looks — Turner would always whistle in this part, wink, and cock an eyebrow, and try to tell her to stop thinking of herself simply as Mister Jack’s hired girl. But since Turner married himself Doris Smith, and since he wasn’t getting anywhere with his sister anyway, he gave up the subject. Duggan Allen, Ginny Lee’s beau, a coal-black, lantern-jawed worker at Chandler’s gin, never listened to what she said, so it didn’t bother him one bit. And the only other person in Puddin’ Nelly who had nothing against Ginny Lee’s one and only topic of conversation was Grandma Towers, called Tappie, after the gnarled black cane she tapped around on, didn’t need and was never without.
The highpoint of Tappie’s day was when Ginny Lee came home after work and told her everything that had happened. Sometimes it wouldn’t amount to anything, and sometimes it would amount to something, but Tappie hung on every word, chortling and grunting and uh-huhing, nodding her flocky white head, spitting into the pail at the side of the rocker, and murmuring, “Just like when I worked up to Mister Senior’s;” or “… yea, sho, dat’s de way allus;” and “Aw, naw, d’e do dat!”
There were the days of crisis, like the day little Master Johnny-Bob got an earache, and Ginny Lee hunted the fruit cellar, hands and knees, for a cockroach, took its head off, split it in half and was just pressing the juice into Master Johnny-Bob’s ear when Miz Cass happened along and carried on as though Ginny were sticking nails in.
Screamed at Ginny Lee: “Don’t you ever — ever, you hear — never try to doctor this child!”
Shouted: “Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could you have — ” And then, “Just go on. Go on back to Puddin’ Nelly now! Don’t mind dinner. I’m too upset. No Ginny Lee, just go!”
Tappie, pressing her stricken granddaughter to her skinny, wizened body, had said, “Ain’t yo fault, honey, ‘at she don’t know cockroach juice cure de earache. Cure de abscess in de ear too.”
And there were the “nothing ‘ceptional happened today” days, the ones when Ginny just recounted — fixed butter beans for dinner; had hell’s time gettin Master Johnny-Bob in from the yard, get tin’ more ‘n more stubborn, not good either bein’ blind and stubborn; thought Mister Jack looked tired; shoulda heard way he yelled at Miz Cass for leavin de top off de toothpaste tube, haw gee-Gawd, dough, she a sloppy liz, and dat’s de truth — weren’t for de fact ob my presence, she’d wipe de plates wid the cat’s tail. Bought herself a new red sweater, need more red in dat house like rain need water — just recount; on and on — and Tappie listening; the two of them, lost dream-deep, deliciously in the land of “up at Mister Jack’s.”
That night as Ginny hurried down to Puddin’ Nelly — late; way past eleven she’d baby-sat, with the vine-hung trees hanging with shadow hair and pointing shadow fingers in the hazy light of a quarter-moon cut by clouds, walking fast as she could with her corns showing off — that night was a crisis night, no doubt and emphatically. Much as they had tried to conceal it when they had come home, Ginny Lee read it on their faces in big print, and thought right when she saw them, just inside the door, with their wraps still on and their packages and newspapers still under their arms. She thought: Oat-oh, somethin’s swimmin’ in de trouble pond.
Then heard Mister Jack say in the kitchen: “I don’t give a good cold shower in hell what you meant! Or who’s back in town! Or what the stinking town thinks I think about integration — or the stinking town either, for that matter!”
“Shhh, Jack, honey. Ginny hasn’t left yet … Listen, I didn’t mean anything. What am I supposed to do, look up and see you on your feet, with Delia Benjamin beside you, and suddenly find myself saying hello and how long you in town for; and then — pffft — end of scene. And what am I supposed to do? Not comment at all? Just say nothing at all about it, like she just walked up to our table any day of the week?”
Delia Benjamin! Yipe, she back! Ginny Lee took time gathering up her movie magazines, hanging up her apron, lingering in the hallway, and listening.
Heard: “… that at all, and now you know it! First you start on the editorial for the Monday edition, then make something out of the fact some old girl friend I forgot in the Year One comes back home and says hi.”
“Will you keep it low, Jack? You know Ginny carries tales.”
Thought: May carry tales, Miz Cass, but got better tales ‘n the stupid dumb
ones I hear in this place; got more to do wid my time ‘n be blabbing ‘bout you or anything to do wit you!
Heard: “Well tell her to get the hell on home then, and get off my neck, Cassie!”
And hustled then, hustled on out the door and halfway down the steps when Miz Cass yelled from the doorway: “Good night, Ginny, and thanks for sitting, hear?”
Galled, “Night, Miz Cass!” Then stopped, called, “An’ Miss Cass — you think I carries tales, you wrong! I got other things to study than tales, and I didn’t hear nothin’ in de first place!”
Miz Cass had sighed and let the screen door bang behind her; and Ginny Lee Polk Ann Towers had sucked in her breath, slapped her thigh with three back issues of Motion Picture, and sang:
Hot, daw, when I get in Il-li-nois
I’m gon-na spread de news
A-bout de Flo-ri-da boys.
Shove it o-ver! Hey! Hey!
Can’t you line it?
Puddin’ Nelly was the Negro quarter in Bastrop, west of the courthouse and down by the tracks, below the brow of Love-Lucy Hill. There the shacks of the colored huddled together, hugging one another in shabby, resigned, unpainted squalor along nameless dirt streets; outhouses plugging the rears; broken rocking chairs and trash cartons and spring-popping white folks’ hand-me-down couches squatting in the fronts.
It got its name from an old Negro who lived down there after slavery; said it was better living there than on the white man’s land; said it was pretty nearly living, but not quite. He had pronounced it “puddin’ nelly,” and it stuck.
Love Lucy Hill was lined with dark water oaks and white sycamores, and off to one side was a city dump; and off to the other a stubble field with a yellow creek running through it. Ginny Lee lived creek-side in Puddin’ Nelly, best side, and she was hurrying past the field when the man stepped out from behind the last water oak at the bottom of Love Lucy, and stood straddle-legged in her path.
She had been in the midst of thinking: “… course dat was all a long time ‘go; still dey say Miz Delia ‘n Mister Jack tought each odder were de moon, dey was so sweet-crazy for each odder. Still, Mister Jack seem right fond of Miz Cass — ”
When she saw him — this man. Ginny Lee was uncommonly pretty, a little girl with unusually long legs for someone her size, good legs that were thin but not sticks and showed finely molded ankles. And her breasts above the round hips and thin waist were large for someone her size, not in a way that gave her a top-heavy look, but a proud feminine look, when she remembered to hold her shoulders back and stand straight. Crabb Suggs, who always eyed her with a feverish, lecherous look spread across his fat, stubbled, red face, said she was angel-faced, and whore-proportioned. Ginny Lee, for her own part, was well satisfied with her looks, save for two things. She wished she weren’t as light-colored as she was, because Duggan Allen claimed it made her look washed out and he wished she was black like he was so when they got married their kids would be; and claimed it worried him some. So it worried her. And the second thing was that her eyes needed glasses, and Duggan Allen said a four-eyes gave him the creeps; he didn’t know why, but facts was facts; so that preyed on her mind, whenever it could find access.
Which it did that very night, the moment the man stepped out from behind the tree, and she stood there blinking and squinting to recognize him; thought for a moment it was Duggan kidding with her; feared for another moment it was Crabb Suggs, trying to corner her again, get her down with her arms pinned back, sit on her legs and say the dirty things while he got her blouse open and her skirt up.
“Duggan?” she asked.
He was Duggan’s size, she thought; thought he was, but Lord, she couldn’t see really. “Duggan?” The man laughed.
She felt a little wave of relief; knew by the laugh it wasn’t Suggs because Suggs had asthma and always wheezed when he laughed.
She said, “Who’re you, huh?”
He didn’t come any closer, and she had stopped in her tracks.
“I ain’t that black nigger,” he said. “You like it for me to be that black nigger, huh? A-yeah, a-yeah, you like it, wouldn’t you?” He cracked his knuckles. “What you want?” she said.
“I want to integrate you,” he giggled. “Hah? Wha say?” The clouds cut away from the quarter moon and she stepped closer. Then she recognized him.
She said, “Where you learn such a big word?” “Not in no school niggers go to. You know niggers going to park their black asses right alongside white folks come Monday, up in the school, huh? Going to integrate,” he pronounced every syllable of the word. “Going to unite as one, huh?”
“You off your stick t’night, sumpin?” He walked closer, holding something in his hand — a photograph.
“Lookit here, Ginny Towers, see here.”
“I can’t.”
“I’ll scratch a match for you.”
“Naw,” she said. Then the flame lit up the photograph. “You filthy!”
“Want to desegregate with me, Ginny Towers?” He giggled and poked her stomach with his finger. “A-yeah, huh?” “I’se sick of the subject of dissectation,” she said. He reached out and gently tweaked her nipple. “I got my car at the dump,” he said. “ ‘Member the ride we took a while back. ‘Member how you asked? Asked for everything I did, din’t yah, a-yeah!”
“Your car belong in de dump,” she said. She was cupping her breast where he had pinched her, smoothing her hand up and down over it. “I didn’t ask for nothin. You said I should ask.”
“And you asked.”
“Duggan hate you,” she said. “Said you’re meaner ‘n anybody out dere at de gin. Said you’re lazy.”
“Tell Duggan that’s why I’m boss.” The man laughed again.
He took her hand. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s integrate.”
“Delia Benjamin’s back in town,” she said, as though she were saying it to herself, weighing things in the matter of their importance, thinking: I’ll jest tell Tappie, well dere’s someone in town we all ain’t seen in some time, easy-like; just tell her gradual; den drop de bomb; haw-g, dog, Tappie gonna bust de gut.
The man said, “I know that. I saw her.”
“Whyn’t you ask her to tinnegrate?”
“Because of the fact we done already tinnegrated once before,” he said, “and she’s a dry lay. I got me better tail ‘n that to hump.”
“You a liar,” Ginny Lee said. “She wouldn’t look at you. She was Mister Jack’s — ”
“Don’t start that,” he said. “I tell you the truth. I had Free-Dee; had her when she was engaged to your Mister Jack.”
“You don’t dare swear on your hearing and eyesight,” she said. She shook her hand away from his. “You a phony.”
He stood in a solemn stance and raised his hand. “I swear on my hearing and I swear on my eyesight that I screwed Delia Benjamin.”
“Don’t — ” she had tried to caution him in the middle of what he was saying, but he had gone right on. Now she regarded him carefully. “You gonna be deaf and blind?” she asked.
“I tell you,” he said. “I tell you what I tell you.”
“While Mister Jack was — while he was engaged?” But she already believed him. There wasn’t much she believed she could be sure of about Duboe Chandler, but there Was one thing: she could be sure he wouldn’t swear that swear unless it were a fact he was attesting to.
“Come on,” he said. “Car’s down at the dump.”
A new light hid in her lowered eyes. She was trying to piece things together.
He took her hand, “Coming? We ain’t got all night to integrate, you know,” he laughed.
She walked along with him and he slid his arm around her waist, let his hand stray up under her sweater. “Gawd damn, you’re stacked, nigger!” he said, “I’m going to desegregate you all to hell!”
Ginny Lee Polk Ann Towers stepped over a clump of sticks, picked a long one out of the clump, and trailed it behind her in the dust.
She said, �
�Mister Jack nebber knew dat, did he, Dube?”
4.
I’m curious, that’s all — that’s what keeps me going. And most of the time I’m simply curious to see how much worse things can get.
— Cass Chadwick
WHEN she first woke up she didn’t remember it. The sun was streaming into the room, and as she squinted around, growing accustomed to daylight, she noticed the dirty fingerprints on the lemon-shaded wallpaper, and in her mind, blessed out Ginny for not wiping them clean. Then as always, when this came to her attention, she felt grief-sore and sorry for little Johnny-Bob, sickened by his sad necessity to feel his way along the walls, and momentarily she worried about him, tried to wonder over his future, and for the Lord only knows how many times, tortured her mind’s eye with visions of her son being run over by a car he didn’t see, falling down staircases he couldn’t anticipate, tripping and bumping and being lost in a multitude of black places — with his small hands groping. And again, as always, it left her anxious and depressed, and more times than often, it was the way the day began; because she was an early waker, and once she did awaken, she was the kind who worried herself fully and finally awake.
Because she didn’t remember the fight with Chad right away, she dwelled on the more familiar anxieties, the routine ones — beginning with Johnny-Bob and ending with her dad’s health. The latter was always accompanied by the determined vow to drive out and see John Beggsom before another day passed, a promise she made to herself time and time again, and seldom kept.
For the past four months a new anxiety had joined the familiar ones, namely Jack’s position on integration in the Bastrop school system, and it was when she finally, sleepily, got around to that, during those slow seconds of gradual awakening, that she remembered. She had just pulled her arm from under the pillow on the huge double bed, where she had been lying on her stomach, her eyes studying the wall, when she looked down at her watch and saw the time, six twenty-five, and then recalled Chad’s good night.