Such Sweet Thunder

by Vincent O. Carter

  The delicate little boy went up on his front porch and sat on the top step and looked at his companions in the alley with an apologetic expression. Meanwhile the children ran barefoot back and forth in front of the porch, dancing and prancing and poking fun at him. They stuck out their tongues, stuck their fingers in their behinds, and pulled off monkeyshines until they made him laugh through the tears that rolled down his face.

  He’s pretty. He thought of Toodle-lum’s brown eyes with the extraordinarily long lashes, like Mr. Crippa’s. Thin nose, big mouth. When he laughed or smiled his lips — like Mom’s an’ Aunt Rose’s, with the ridge coming to a point just beneath the base of the nose — suddenly expanded the full length of his small face and made his peach-colored cheeks swell into rosy mounds under his eyes so that one could hardly see them. His big curly head was balanced upon a long skinny neck just like a baby bird!

  Skinnier than a telegraph wire! Pigeon-toed. Can’t fight, can’t go out of the yard. Shoots marbles good, though.

  A wave of pity for Toodle-lum swept over him. He’s crazy! Watching him laugh and cry at the same time, wondering how it was possible — with just a flicker of his lashes or a flash of fire that he coaxed into his eyes. Just like a girl!

  And now he felt shame mixed with jealousy at the memory of how Toodle-lum always shied away when Amerigo hit him because he was mad because he had won his marbles. Amerigo cried until he gave them back, and then wanted to do something wonderful for him like giving him his wineballs, or lending him the jackknife that he got for Christmas to play mumble peg with or something like that.

  His mother’s name was Hazel and she was Mrs. Shields’s youngest daughter. And then there was Margret who was twenty-eight but pretended to be twenty-four. And then Jimmy, the oldest next to Maggie. Old lady Shields couldn’t bully her, she worked for her living. Lived down on the first floor next to Mr. Dan. Jimmy was a porter in a hotel out south, and George didn’t do anything but drink, until the old lady started to giving him hell, then he would get a job for a few days until she quieted down.

  Miss Margret’s pretty! He saw her thick black hair and dark daring eyes and followed the line of her lips from memory. They were always smiling at the men who passed by. He wished he were a man.

  He remembered sitting on the back steps of her house one Saturday morning when she was bending over a tub full of dirty clothes. A thin trickle of sweat rolled down her neck and between her breasts, which were exposed by the sagging lapels of the bathrobe she’d clumsily fastened with a safety pin. She looked up just in time to catch him looking down her bosom.

  “What! What-you-lookin’ at you little black rascal!” she exclaimed. “Why you — he’s — ha! Are you lookin’ down my bosom, boy? Already! Why, you filthy li’l bastard! Git out a my sight! An’ go tell that ugly biggidy momma a yourn that if I ever catch you — or hear tell a you — lookin’ at what ain’ none a your black business agin I’m gonna slap the piss out a you! Now git!”

  Toodle-lum looked like his mother. She was sick all the time and her eyes were always red. She cried a lot and laughed a lot. But not the way T. C. laughed, or like Mom and Dad’s, or Bra Mo’s or anybody’s.

  “Them’s hustlin’ women, Amerigo,” Rutherford was saying. “You stay away from that house. You let Toodle-lum come over here if you just gotta play with ’im.”

  “Yeah,” said Viola testily, “or maybe your daddy could go over an’ play in his yard if he can’t come over here. That Margret don’ do nothin’ but swish ’round on that porch half naked an’ make eyes at ’im, no way!”

  “Aw Babe, what I want with a tramp like that?”

  “The other evening,” Viola interrupted with narrow eyelids, “she was over there just a singin’ to beat the band — ‘I kin git more men than a passenger train kin haul!’ — in that loud twang a hers when Hazel, ’er own sister, yelled upstairs: ‘You can’t git none of ’um to marry you!’ an’ laughed — you know the way she does? Heeee — all high like she was wheezin’. The folks up an’ down the alley sure had a laugh on her!”

  The Shieldses’ house loomed up in an ominous shadow in the falling darkness, its bulky mass perforated by the soft yellow light of coal oil lamps that filled the windows. Silent figures of white and black men slipped in through the back from the Charlotte Street side. The blues spewed out in the sticky air, shadows danced upon the walls, a carelessly closed door idled open: Margret sitting on a white man’s lap, holding out a glass into which Mrs. Shields poured whiskey, while the white man ran his hand up under her dress between her legs. “You quit that now!” she giggled, just before Mrs. Shields prudently shut the door.

  The image faded away and blended into the expansive feeling of a Saturday morning when Viola let him go out and play in the alley because it was a holiday and she didn’t have to work. He slipped over to play marbles with Toodle-lum. Toodle-lum won, and then they sat on Mr. Everett’s windowsill. Mr. Everett, a bald-headed old man with the face of a devil, heard them arguing about the marbles, which Toodle-lum had won, and poured a can of ice water through the screen onto the sill and wet their bottoms. Then they went up on Toodle-lum’s back porch to sit in the sun and dry themselves. Presently they heard a sound like that of someone struggling in the bedroom. A bar of shade falling across the screen of the bedroom door enabled them to look in. Miss Hazel was lying on the bed and a man was lying on top of her. She was scratching him and whining and he was kissing her and squeezing her titties. The noises they made sounded funny. The man started to tear at her dress.

  At this point Mrs. Shields came out of the kitchen downstairs and called: “Toodle-lum! Aw-Toodle-lum!”

  “Yes’m! Yes’m!” answered Toodle-lum. Amerigo hit him hard in the ribs but it was too late. Miss Hazel, hearing voices just outside the door, jumped up from the bed, ran to the door and looked out. Her dress, which buttoned down the front, was open. The children stared at her naked body. Her hair was all in her face and her red eyes flashed angrily.

  “Git away from here you li’l black muthah-fuggah!”

  Meanwhile Mrs. Shields came grunting up the steps as fast as she could, slowly enough, she being a fat old woman, to allow them to rush past her, but not before she could swat them twice with the broom.

  “Little sons a bitches!” she exclaimed. Amerigo ran home as fast as he could. From his front porch he heard the old woman screaming. “Toodle-lum, you git in this house! I’m gonna warm your little behind!”

  “Yes’m, yes’m.” His frightened voice hung — stuck — in the air, and Amerigo felt a heavy depressive loneliness steal upon him.

  The sun was burning its way through eleven o’clock, diffusing its hard blatant light through the alley, raising blisters upon the ancient porch banisters and drying the cracks in the cement yard.

  The cool, dank bouquet of vatted wine rose from Mrs. Crippa’s cellar and mixed with the smell of parmesan cheese hanging in mold-encrusted loaves from the ceiling while blue-green flies buzzed happily around the half-shut garbage can in the yard at the foot of the porch steps. The putrid odor of rotting food permeated the air.

  He descended the steps and lifted the lid of the can and gazed at its contents with an expression signifying both curiosity and revulsion. Swarming in the midst of a bile-green mass of decaying food — which in turn rested within the center of a dull, brick-red substance that appeared to have once been chili-beans — was a heap of tallow-white maggots! The smell was revolting, but he was fascinated by the colors, for now he discovered the volatile yellow hues of several lemon rinds strewn among the green, and that the outer edge of the mass of chili-beans were of a lighter shade of reddish brown, having dried more quickly in the sun. He narrowed his eyelids and discovered that the colors blended in a remarkable way, the whiteness of the maggots causing the lemon rinds to appear of a more saturated yellow, almost white, and at the same time adding a richness to the deep brown, almost black, watermelon seeds!

  Then something moving on Aunt Lily’s porch att
racted his attention. He turned his head and peered between the banister railings into the shadows of the porch. At that instant the sharp putrid odor from the garbage can stung his nostrils with the intensity of some volatile poison. Ugh! he cried aloud, and clamped the top down over the can and hammered it more firmly with the heel of his bare foot.

  The odor safely sealed in the can, he returned his attention to the porch. A small kitten emerged from the hidden corner formed by the concrete wall and the shed. It was about six months old. It advanced with some difficulty up the three concrete steps into the yard. It approached Amerigo and paused a few feet from where he stood. He picked it up and stroked its soft blue-gray fur. He looked down into its yellow eyes and they regarded him with a savage tenderness. He felt its delicate spine tremble in his hands, reverberate with a gentle purring murmur.

  “Me,” said Rutherford’s voice, “an’ a gang a niggahs usta go snake huntin’ ever’ Sad’dy on Clairmount Hill an’ all up in them woods ’roun’ Cliff Drive an’ down by the railroad tracks. An’ don’ let us come ’cross no cats! M-a-n, we was rough on a cat. We’d throw ’um up in the air by the tail! an’ chunk rocks at ’um!”

  He saw his father’s mischievous smile as he spoke, he heard his mother’s reproach and his father’s reply: “They got nine lives, ain’ they?”

  He trembled with a deep sense of mystery, fear, and curiosity. He stroked the cat gently. Again. It purred and fanned its tail with a gentle show of satisfaction. Gradually, unaware that he did so, he gripped the kitten tightly in his hands and moved breathlessly up the steps. He stood over the banister and rested his elbows upon the rail, but he did not feel the heat of the sun upon it, nor did he hear the distant hum of traffic that rose from the boulevard and from the avenue. He did not see that the elm trees in Miss Ada’s yard swayed gently and that their branches cast cool transparent shadows against the back wall of the empty house. The kitten wriggled in the free air beyond the railing. His arms, then his hands grew gradually numb. He looked at the soft fur of the kitten’s head until it blurred out of focus. And suddenly his hands were empty. His eyes followed it down …

  “Boom!” he whispered softly, almost in an attitude of prayer.

  On her feet! he cried excitedly, stealing frenziedly down the steps as if in a dream. When he reached the yard he seized the trembling kitten, clutched it to his breast, and again ascended the steps, and let it fall.

  Boom!

  Not hard enough.

  This time he ran down the steps and grabbed the kitten by the nape of the neck, and when he had gained the porch he took her by the tail and flung her high in the air. She screamed, arched her back and stretched her four legs wide apart — as she sailed through the air and down with a wild static freedom Boom!

  She stood trembling, dazed, where she landed.

  Why doesn’t she run away? Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. He breathed in short hectic gasps and his heart pounded in his ears. Go away, cat! But she didn’t go away. She trembled where she stood. All right then, I’ll show you!

  He snatched her up and scrambled to the porch and blindly flung her over.

  Boom!

  Boom!

  How many lives did Dad say? Four to go! Four!

  Boom!

  Boom!

  Boom!

  Weary in his soul, sick with shame and mortally afraid he approached the kitten again. Each step he took with dread, but he couldn’t stop.

  “Stop!” cried a voice, and he looked about him and tried to ferret out the witnessing eyes of the hot sultry morning. He studied all the windows and all the doors of all the houses carefully. Not a soul in sight. He listened. No sound save the sound of his heart pulsing in his throat against the background of the sound that came from far away, from the top of the alley, from the avenue, a large cruel indifferent sound that was suddenly drowned out by the voice that shouted in his ears:

  Why don’t you die, cat?

  At that instant a cloud drenched the yard in shade. A cool breeze blew over his face, chilling the sweat upon his brow.

  “Run away! Shoo!”

  She stood trembling at the foot of the steps. He stooped down to pick her up and she looked at him. He took up his heavy burden and flung it down once more. He followed her descent out of the corner of his eye.

  Boom!

  He stood before her, his whole body aching with fear. Just as he reached down to pick her up another cloud passed over the sun. Her eyes flashed demonically in the light. He sprang away from her, jamming his knee against the stone at the foot of the steps. A sharp pain shot through his knee and the bruise started to bleed. He grabbed her by the tail and, burning with a sort of terror, carried her up to the porch. He swung her forward, then backward, in order to get enough momentum to swing her as far as he could. But on the backward swing a sharp pain seared the back of his hand. His knuckle was torn and blood flowed from the skin around the bone.

  He put the kitten down and looked at her. She trembled at his feet. He bent down and stroked her fur. Then he went into the kitchen and filled a bowl with cornflakes and milk and spread a spoonful of plum preserves upon it. He took it out to the porch and placed it before her. But she did not eat. She trembled where she stood.

  Presently a trickle of blood oozed out of the corner of her mouth. She began to cough violently. He ran to the farthest corner of the porch and looked at her. Gradually she ceased coughing. She half fell, half lay down before the bowl of cornflakes. Her eyes shone with a dull glare. They were looking at him! The blood continued to flow from her mouth, but she did not move again.

  The twelve o’clock whistle blew.

  He dashed into the front room and got an old copy of the Voice and wrapped the cat up in it. Then he slipped quickly down the steps and into the lot of the empty house and threw it into the hole filled with trash where the floor had caved in. Then he ran back up onto the porch and into the kitchen and found the scrub rag in a pail by the sink. He filled the pail with water and got the broom and carried them out onto the porch as quickly as he could.

  Bra Mo’s truck rattled down the alley. Big Tom zoomed up the alley in a red truck and stopped in front of his house. And now he heard voices in the alley, people were coming home to lunch!

  He hastily splashed the water on the bloodstains and swished the broom over the spot where the cat had laid its head, drying it thoroughly with the rag. When he had finished he took the rag, pail, and broom back in the kitchen and put them away. Then he went into the toilet and vomited. After that he washed his face with cold water and waited for his mother to come.

  “Did you stay in the yard like I told you, babe?” Viola asked, filling his plate with warmed-over beans from last night.

  “Yes’m.”

  She fished out a piece of fat meat and put it on his plate. Then she chopped up part of a Spanish onion and strewed it over the beans and poured out a glass of cold buttermilk from the bottle she’d brought with her.

  “Ain’t you hungry?” noticing that he wasn’t eating. She took a pan of corn bread out of the oven, sliced a wedge, and put it on his plate.

  “No’m.”

  “What’s the matter with you? You look a little ashy in the face.” She noticed his hand and his knee. “What happened to your hand an’ your knee?”

  I killed the cat nine — ten times!… he thought, but no sound escaped his mouth. His heart pounded and the sick feeling rose once more to his throat.

  “What happened to your hand an’ your knee?…” Viola was asking.

  “I hurt it.”

  “Where?” examining the wound more closely.

  “On the step in the yard.”

  “You got a nasty gash there.” She led him into the middle room and sat him down on the vanity stool. She rummaged in the middle drawer for bandages. Then she washed and dressed the cuts on knee and hand. “There, is that better?”

  “Yes’m.”

  She took him in her arms.

  “No wonder you look
so peaked. Come on, now, baby, an’ eat your lunch. You’ll feel a lot better with some hot food in your stomach.”

  The one o’clock whistle blew. Viola had dashed out of the house a little before twelve-thirty promising to bring him something nice if he would be a good boy and not go out of the yard.

  He sat on the orange crate waiting for five o’clock. He looked at the spot where the cat had died. It had dried and was cleaner than the rest of the porch. “Like there never was a cat!” His heart gladdened to the idea.

  He glanced nervously at the empty house.

  A voice came from behind him. He turned around and saw Mrs. Crippa’s lips moving as she stepped onto her porch. He held his breath in fear that she would come over and accuse him. Instead she descended to the cellar carrying a glass water pitcher. A few minutes later she returned with the pitcher filled with wine. Looks like blood!

  One o’clock slipped into two o’clock. He went down into the yard and leaned over the fence. He stared at the empty house for a long time. He peered into the hole where the cat lay. Then after a while he went down to the shed on Aunt Lily’s porch and took out an old hammer, some old rusty nails and a saw, and some scraps of lumber Rutherford had brought home. I’ll make a jig.

  “A three-wheeled wagon shaped like a triangle,” he heard Rutherford say. “With a long axle supportin’ the back wheels an’ a short one — an iron rod — in front.”

  He worked lifelessly at his task in the far corner of the yard near the gate separating it from the shoot that led to Campbell Street. It was shady there because of the great oblique shadow thrown by Miss Ada’s house.

  Suddenly a lean hungry-looking tiger cat jumped up on the fence and walked along its edge. Its shadow fell upon the yard. He froze with terror. The cat! He turned to see if it was really her. The strange cat jumped onto the shed and sniffed and then jumped down onto Aunt Lily’s porch and stood for a moment within the shadows where he had discovered her. Suddenly its head appeared over the edge of the concrete wall. It was ascending the steps. It was in the yard. It sat on the stone step at the foot of the staircase where he had hurt his knee. It sniffed at the dried blood. He lowered his eyes and stared at the cracks in the yard. He felt the cat looking at him! He lifted his eyes and the cat stared at him for several seconds. The sun shone fully upon its face, upon its eyes.