“Kin I go down to Aunt Lily’s?” he asked.
“All right,” said Viola, “but you be back by nine o’clock.”
“Yes’m.”
“Hi, hon!” said Aunt Lily when he stuck his head in the door.
“Hi, Aunt Lily, where’s Unc?”
“Aw he’s gone to the late drawin’ I guess! No tellin’ where that man is half the time!” She shook her head with a sad thoughtful smile. “How you gittin’ on in school?”
“All right.”
“Forgotcha ABCs?”
“No’m!”
“Bet you have!”
“ABCDEFGHIJ … KLMN … OPQ … RSTUVWXYZ! — There!”
“That’s fine, baby!
“But I bet you forgot how to write your name, though. Sanie Claus ain’ gonna know who to bring the toys to if you can’t even write a letter!”
“No’m, I ain’ forgot! Gimme a piece a paper!”
“Looka there on the sewin’ machine an’ take a piece a your unc’s paper an’ one a them pencils.”
He took a pencil and paper and settled himself on the floor. He printed out his name, while she looked down over his shoulder.
“That’s just fine,” she said. “Here I’ll tell you what.” She reached for an old copy of the Voice. “Put your paper on the top and copy out the letters that show through.” He started copying the letters. Meanwhile she put her coffeepot on the stove and settled down in the rocking chair, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose, the way Unc wore his. She picked up a dress from the table and started to mend it.
He worked intently, oblivious to everything except the black letters that shone through. He spelled the letters out as he wrote:
“D.… EAT … H!… C O M EEEE — S TO FAT HER OF FIVE. F-I-V-E spells five! BOY OF SIX-TEENDIES IN HOSPITAL FROMPOLICEBRUTALITYNAACPDRIVEGETS UNDERWAY.
“Look!” He held up the lettered sheet of paper with pride.
“Unh-huh, that’s good …” she said in a distracted tone, intent on her sewing. “One a these days you’ll be readin’ an’ writin’ as good as me!”
He began to trace the picture in the center of the page. There was a tree in the middle of the picture. A black man was hanging from one of its branches. His eyes were popping out.
“Don’ he look funny!” he cried, holding up the paper. Aunt Lily looked at it, and then she looked at him, and then her eyes darkened.
“Naw, honey, he don’ look a bit funny to me. What if it was your daddy?”
He studied the picture carefully. He looked curiously at the white people standing around the hanging man. He felt Aunt Lily’s eyes on him. It does look funny! he thought, and at the same time he was stung by a feeling of shame.
The nine o’clock whistle blew.
“Mom said I have to come up at nine.”
“You better git goin’ then,” she smiled sadly. She started to kiss him, but he stooped to pick up the piece of paper on which he had drawn the man on the tree, and ran out the door without looking back. He scampered the dark corridor steps, paused a second before Miss Sadie’s door and, hearing no sound on the other side, burst into the house, holding the sheet of paper in the air.
“Look what I done!” showing the drawing to Viola.
“You traced it, didn’t you?”
“I put it on top a the Voice an’ wrote over the letters that come through.”
“That ain’ nothin’ to brag out. Anybody kin copy the letters, but it takes some doin’ to write it freehand.”
“Look!” He pointed to the scanty tracing of the hanged man. “I did it!” He smiled with deep satisfaction. “Don’t he look funny! Ho! ho! ho!”
“Ain’ that the picture of the man that got lynched?”
“He was in the paper that Aunt Lily gimme, an’-an’ his eyes was all poppin’ out all funny-like!”
“Go to bed!”
“Aw Mom.”
She looked like she meant it. He stalked into the kitchen into the toilet.
“If you ain’ in bed,” she called after him, “in five minutes, I’m gonna tell your daddy to tell you!”
Rutherford looked up from his detective magazine, and Amerigo quickened his step. He spelled out the word of the magazine as he sat on the stool: S-H-A-D-O-W — that spells shadow!
In bed, in the dark, he thought about the man in the tree. There was blood on his shirt and all the white people standing around him had burning sticks in their hands. He saw the man’s bulging eyes. They shone like bright points of light in the dark. He was dead! he thought suddenly. What’s lynching? Why had his mother made him go to bed so suddenly? I didn’t do nothin’! Ain’ that funny! Aunt Lily’s eyes grew dark. Shame shocked him awake, but he tightened his eyes upon the deep mysterious satisfaction he had gotten out of looking at the man: Look what I done! Look what I done! LOOK WHAT I DONE!
“Boom! Boom! Boom!”
“What was that!” Viola cried in a quiet frightened voice. Amerigo peered into the darkness of the middle room.
“What?” said Rutherford drowsily.
“Thought I heard some shots.”
“WHATWASTHAT!” demanded a woman’s voice from the alley.
Sounds like Mrs. Grey’s, he thought.
“SOMEBODY SHOOTIN’ DOWN THE ALLEY!” cried Miss Anna Benton. “Aw, LAWD! Mun ain’ home yet!”
“What time is it?” Miss Sadie asked someone in the corridor. A second later: “Come away from that window!” And then Mr. Nickles grumbled something that he could not understand. Meanwhile he heard the doors shutting up and down the alley.
“Did you lock the back door?” Viola whispered.
“I think so,” Rutherford lay in bed for two minutes, then he got up and went to the kitchen and checked the back door.
“It’s locked,” he said, getting back into bed. “Unh! It’s q-u-i-e-t as a graveyard out there. An’ d-a-r-k! I think that streetlight’s burned out, or knocked out.” Amerigo looked out the front window. The stars were shining here and there.
Clouds, he thought. He squirmed quietly, cautiously in his bed. Settled, he listened to his mother and father breathing. He measured his own breath against the length of theirs. Viola’s breath was long and deep, Rutherford’s was shorter, and his was the shortest.
She takes one breath to my three! he heard Rutherford saying. And then he felt a sharp stinging pain in the pit of his stomach. He doubled himself into a knot, pressed his hands between his legs, and waited for daylight to come.
“You come straight home from school — an’ stay home!” said Viola before she left for work the following morning. “Don’t go cuttin’ through no alleys an’ yards or nothin’, go the venue way.” Rutherford had already told him.
On his way to school he saw little knots of people along the streets, talking excitedly.
“Riddled with bullets!” Mr. Ted was saying to Miss Emmy.
“Yeah? Wheah?” asked Miss Emmy, tall short-haired, dressed in overalls, looking just like a man, he thought, as he paused to listen.
“Back a The Saw-Dust Trail.”
“Who was it?”
“Texicana. Him an’ ol’ Rhodes was gam’lin’.”
He walked on through the shoot where they said the dead man had been found. He looked everywhere for signs of blood. He was disappointed and wondered what he looked like.
That night at supper Rutherford read the article about it in the Star: “ ‘Wilbur Rhodes, thirty-one, Negro, five feet seven inches tall and weighin’ one hundred an’ eighty-six pounds, was shot to death last night in a alley between Independence Avenue an’ Admiral Boulevard, Charlotte and Campbell Streets, at approximately two-twenty A.M. by John Waters, forty-seven, Negro, with a forty-five-caliber revolver as the result of a quarrel. Waters is six feet three inches tall, has a dark brown complexion and an oval knife scar on his chin. He is also known by the name of Texicana. When last seen —”
The following Friday evening after supper, Rutherford unfolded the pages of the Voice and
read:
“GAMBLER Slain in Death Valley! Ain’ that a damned shame!” He looked over the paper at Viola.
“Let me see,” she said.
“Here, look.”
“That’s awful!”
“Why,” said Rutherford, “why in the hell do they have to exaggerate like that? A man reads this paper an’ gits fightin’ mad! Waitaminute!” He turned to the sports page. “I knowed it, looka here. Hot damn! SATCHEL PAIGE! The world’s greatest pitcher to appear with the K.C. Monarchs after a successful exhibition tour of the South American Circuit!”
“Satch is the greatest!” Viola exclaimed, “They just don’t give him credit ’cause he ain’ a white man!”
“Yeah, he’s good, great —” Rutherford exclaimed, “but to let the Voice tell it you’d think that noboda else in the world kin play baseball but Satchel Paige. Just look! All you kin see: the greatest singer, the greatest dancer, an’ all that stuff. Make a man think the other hundred an’ ninety million people in this country ain’ nothin’. An’ don’t let somethin’ bad happen — like that lynchin’ down south last week. They make it so bad that you want to kill every paddy you see. A lynchin’s bad enough, but why put a picture of a bloody man with his eyes poppin’ out a his head on the front page? Don’ do nothin’ but fill a man up with hate. An’ what kin you do! You gotta go to work the next day. I say the only way to settle this race jive is to work with intelligence through the laws of this country! A man’s gotta try to understand these people, be friendly an’ git along with ’um or go nuts!”
Viola nodded in silent agreement, and looked at her husband with an expression of sincere admiration. Having finished eating, Rutherford fished in the ashtray for a cigarette butt, lit it, and puffed thoughtfully. Viola took another helping of okra, while Amerigo picked distractedly at his plate.
There was a knock at the front door. Rutherford went to answer it. They could hear him talking to a stranger:
“Does Mister Jones live here?”
“Sounds like Mister Harps!” he exclaimed.
“Why, yes,” said Rutherford, “Ah, I’m Jones.”
“Who?” asked Viola.
“It’s —” but Viola hushed him.
“Aw- you want my son!” said Rutherford, “Amerigo, here’s somebody — a gentleman — to see — to see you.”
He went into the front room, followed Viola.
“This is my wife,” said Rutherford.
“How do you do,” said the man politely.
“An’- and here’s Amerigo, my son.”
“You are Amerigo Jones?” said the man, smiling with surprise.
“Won’t you set-sit down, Mr. — I didn’t —” Rutherford pointed to the sofa.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Jones, I should have — Robert Jordan, editor of the Voice. You see, I was asked to visit you by one of our readers, and eh-eh-I decided eh- to take her advice. Ehhem. But let me explain, last week a man was killed here in this al-street, and we-we- eh-we reported it. A little too strongly for Miss Nancy Cunningham, I’m afraid. Ah-ha! ha! Yes …”
“Who’s that?” asked Viola.
“I never heard a that name, myself!” said Rutherford.
“Me, neither,” added Amerigo.
“Why, she’s a neighbor of yours!” exclaimed Mr. Jordan. “A very good neighbor, I can’t help thinking. She lives up the street there, at-uh-I just came from there. An old lady, dark-complexioned, with —”
“Aunt Nancy! —” exclaimed Amerigo.
“Cunnin’ham!” exclaimed Viola. “Ain’ that strange: All these years an’ I never even heard of ’er last name before!”
Amerigo smiled, finding it funny to have somebody calling Aunt Nancy “Miss Nancy Cunningham”!
“A man delivered this letter to our office this afternoon,” Mr. Jordan continued: “May I read it to you?”
Rutherford nodded assent, glanced at Viola curiously, and then fixed his attention on Mr. Jordan, who withdrew a letter from a large leather wallet that he took from his inside coat pocket:
“Ehhem …” extending the letter to the proper distance, and began:
“ ‘To the man who owns the Voice.’ Eh, I think I should read it the way she wrote it. Mrs. Cunningham is a simple woman with, eh, not much education, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t express herself clearly — or forcefully! Eh …” He smiled to Viola and Rutherford and they smiled congenially back at him. “Eh, ‘To the man who owns the Voice: I’m just a ol’ lady, an’ I ain’ got no education, but I’m a God-fearin’, God-lovin’ woman, an’ I been a member of Saint John’s Baptist Church these thirty-five years, an’ I been livin’ in this here alley longer’n that. Now all that time, I seed ’um come an’ I seed ’um go, an’ I know one thing: As sure as there’s a God in Heaven there’s good folks in this world an’ there’s bad. But that’s only to half-blind sinner’s eyes like mines, to the Good Godamighty!!! They is all good! Now we got good peoples down here an’ we got bad. An’ we poor, sure enough! But we ain’ no badder’n nobody else. We got good law-abidin’ people who don’ cuss an’ drink an’ gam’le, an’ they send they kids to church Sund’y, an’ gits old — older’n me even — an’ go to they Maker in peace. God bless they soul! An’ I don’ think it’s right for you to go ’round sayin’ in the papers for everybody to read that we’s all murderers and cutthroats when it ain’ so!!! Speak not evil aginst others that evil be not spoken aginst you!!! The Good Book says that! Now in our alley is a good family with a son. He got eyes an’ ears in his head. An’ he’s smart as a whip! Got the best manners of any little boy I ever did see — black or white! An’ his momma an’ poppa keep ‘im clean an’ lookin’ nice all the time. Them, too. An’ they got a telephone an’ a radio just like decent folks. You go visit ’um, an’ see if you done right, sayin’ what you said. I know the Lord’ll bless you, if you do. His name is A-mereego Jones — I know I ain’ spellin’ it right, but that don’ matter none, just as long as you understand who I mean — an’ he live at six-eighteen Cosy Lane on the third floor on the south side. Now that’s all I gotta say, an’ may the Lord encourage you to tell things better like they is. Miss Nancy Cunningham, Mother of Saint John’s Baptist Church.”
An irrepressible smile spread over the child’s face, and he felt the way he had felt when Old Jake gave him the star. He saw Old Jake holding it up to the sunlight, as Mr. Jordan sucked his teeth thoughtfully and said:
“It isn’t easy to run a Negro newspaper in this town or anywhere, for that matter, Mr. and Mrs. Jones — Amerigo. I was little more than your age when I started selling the Voice on the corners.” Mr. Jordan suddenly checked himself and continued in a more businesslike tone. “We have to compete with the Post and the Star. Because we issue our sheet weekly our coverage is usually secondhand. Even then we must deal with happenings of merely local interest to our people. We have to report the news and try to educate our people at the same time. And we have to sell the paper!” He paused significantly, his eyes fixed upon Rutherford.
“Yeah,” said Rutherford uneasily, “it-it sure must be hard all right.”
“Yes,” continued Mr. Jordan, “and I’m sorry to say that we sometimes get so involved with selling the paper that we overstep the limits of propriety.”
“How’s that?” asked Rutherford.
“We, eh, go too far.”
“Aw …”
“Of course, we’ll print an apology in the next issue, eh …” Mr. Jordan sucked his teeth again and rose to his feet. “Now,” smiling cordially and reaching for Viola’s hand, “I think I have taken up enough of your time.” Rutherford and Viola stood up. “I am very happy to have met you, Mister and Mrs. Jones, and you, too, eh-eh, Amerigo — that’s right, isn’t it? Yes, Amerigo,” taking his hand and flashing a restless indulgent smile upon him. Then he withdrew a gold watch from his vest pocket, glanced at it, and quickly put it back. “Well, Amerigo,” letting go of his hand, “how old are you?”
“I’m five years o
ld.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“I’m in the kinnygarden at the Garr’son School in Miss Chapman’s class an’ Mister Bowles is the principal.”
“Well … well — do you, eh, like to go to school?”
“Yessir.”
“You’re right, son, an’ education is a great possession, and very necessary to our people. I’ll bet you want to be a teacher when you grow up.”
“Nosir.”
“No? What, then?”
“The president of Amer’ka!”
Rutherford, Viola, and Mr. Jordan exchanged embarrassed glances. Then Mr. Jordan’s face took on a dreamy, slightly sad expression, the same expression as when he had spoken of how he had sold newspapers when he was a boy. He placed his hand thoughtfully upon Amerigo’s shoulder and said:
“Why not? Yes! Why not! A man’s no bigger than his dreams.…”
He shook their hands again and departed, descending the steps heavily, slowly. Like Bra Mo with a heavy chunk of ice on his shoulder.
“Unh!” cried Rutherford, no sooner than the sound of his footsteps had faded away. “Kin you beat that, Babe? A bigshot comin’ all the way down to the North End just to apologize to Amerigo!”
Viola nodded thoughtfully, gazing at her son as though he were a stranger. Rutherford, sensing her meaning, said: “Yeah, I know. Ain’ it the truth! He’ll be a man before you kin look around! Time sure does fly. An’ did you notice how nice he was dressed? Conservative! An’ how he put down them ten-dollar words in a simple way that you kin understand. Class, Jack! Boy!” to Amerigo, “You is somebody! Heah me!” His face broadened into a smile.
“Are!” said Amerigo.
“Yes, Mister President, but you wait till you finish with your college an’ all an’ git one a them Phi Beta Kappas or a Magna Cum Laudy before you start correctin’ your poppa! An’ even then I’d advise you to whisper so low that I can’t even hear you!” He grinned, Viola grinned, Amerigo grinned. Then after a pleasant thoughtful silence of several seconds, he said mischieveously, “Well, Mister President, I think it’s ’bout time for you to hit the hay, don’ you?”
Such Sweet Thunder Page 20