Such Sweet Thunder

by Vincent O. Carter

  “The stores look like — like — palaces or somethin’,” he heard Rutherford say, and he smiled with satisfaction because it was true. The scene caused him to think of the fairy tales that he listened to on the radio every Saturday.

  He followed his companions silently, dumbly taking in all the finery in the store windows. It looks a lot better than the pictures in the Star, he thought, pressing his nose against the windows of the candy stores, and of the food stores, where everything looked so good, so unbelievably good — too good to eat! — as Rutherford had said.

  The snow fell silently and swelled into mounds around the evergreen trees that stood in the center of the square. They glistened with tiny blue lights.

  “It is a Sanie Claus,” whispered the voices, seeping up through the snow from the trunks of the trees. Anxiously he looked at Tommy, who was standing in front of a little store that looked like a chapel. Its facade was covered with porcelain shingles, and two bronze urns stood on either side of the alcove through which one entered the store. A tiny bell in its miniature tower rang the hour:

  “It is a Sanie Claus!” it said: “… it is … it is …”

  They moved on now, gazing at other wonders of the Plaza with reverence and with awe.

  They were walking east. The beautiful square was far behind. They were now surrounded by large roomy houses with long generous porches.

  “That’s the one I want!” Amerigo cried suddenly, pointing to a bungalow with a deeply slanting roof and coffee-brown shingles.

  “I’ll take that one!” Turner said, pointing to a big stone house behind a tall iron gate.

  “You couldn’t even pay the rent money!” said Tommy.

  “Aw — I kin say what I like if I wanna, man!”

  “It sure is pretty!” said Eddie. “Must have twenty rooms!”

  A million of them! he thought, seeing a big fireplace in every room — big enough to slide down easily!

  Now they were walking west. They came to a broad shallow staircase with an expansive walk on either side of a long grassy island now covered with snow. The paths extended almost a block to another staircase that gave onto a grand stone porch supported by six great marble columns. On either side of this main stair were two moderately sized lawns enclosed by stone balustrades, beyond which were various kinds of trees and bushes whose branches now bent earthward under the weight of the ever-falling snow.

  A mellow amber light glowed from a huge bronze urn hanging from the ceiling. It tinted the snow and illuminated the porch and threw the building’s facade into a peaceful and yet stately relief.

  They walked quietly onto the porch and peered at the great bronze doors. Suddenly the sound of crunching snow broke the churchlike silence as they walked. A flashlight flickered from the garden neighboring the lawn to the east.

  “Look! A ghost!” Eddie cried.

  “Aw-aw!” said Carl.

  “Ssssh!” Tommy whispered, poking him in the ribs and beckoning him and the others to follow him. They stole off the porch and ran down the path as fast as they could. When they reached the street and could finally breathe again Amerigo declared:

  “M-a-n — that house sure was haunted!”

  “Aw, man, that’s a museum!” said Tommy.

  “Hee hee! You don’ know nothin’, man!” Turner jeered. “That’s where they keep pictures a dead people an’ bones an’ things from the Greeks an’ stuff like that.”

  “Yeah!” said Tommy, “an’ a place where you keep pictures is a a-r-t museum, dumbbell!”

  He took another look at the stately building.

  “I take it back,” he mumbled to himself. “That’s the house I want!”

  “What?” Eddie asked.

  “Nothin’,” he said, thinking, that’s the prettiest house in the whole world! Moving away with the others, he stared back at the great porch. The peace and serenity of its columns and of its facade filled him with strangely familiar emotions that were both curious and comforting. For an instant a subtle fear accompanied by the dizzying sensation of whirling through cool bright regions of space came over him. A long low growl rose up from the pit of his stomach. Gradually the fear subsided, leaving only a feeling of wonder egged on by his curiosity to know exactly what was in the building. But then his stomach growled again, and his curiosity gave way to a sensation of hunger, and then he became aware of the pains that shot through his feet as he trampled along the cold wet pavement, through cozy lanes and winding alleys lined with beautiful houses nestling behind snow-covered gardens. Only now he no longer looked at the houses, only at the soft warm light behind the curtained windows. He longed for his bed and sleep.

  They had lost their way. Turner wanted to go “thataway!” pointing to a little winding lane to the left, and Tommy wanted to go “thataway —” pointing to a little winding lane on the right.

  “Come on, ’Mer’go,” said Tommy, and they trudged on alone. Turner, Carl, and Eddie went the other way. Finally he and Tommy came to the square. All was silent, except for the falling snow. The bell in the tower of the store that looked like a chapel toned eleven.

  They stood huddled together in the shelter and waited for the streetcar. An automobile stopped at the corner, and three pale, dry, curious faces stared out at them from behind snow-splashed windows, and then moved away, out of sight.

  Gradually now the snow turned to freezing rain. The snow that lay on the ground was transformed into a dirty gray slush flowing in shimmering streams through the gutters and down the drains.

  The sky was black, and the trees stood naked and wet under the lamplight. Glimmering droplets of water undulated along the undersides of their branches and fell slowly, heavily, rhythmically: Boom! Boom! Boom! against the gray gauzelike curtain of driving rain.

  Clang! clang! clang! The streetcar rumbled up in front of their shelter and turned around to the far side and waited for the time to depart. He took his seat beside Tommy. They huddled together in the middle of the car and gladdened to the hot currents of air that steamed up through their wet clothes.

  The conductor stamped on the bell and the streetcar moved away from the shelter. He watched their swaying images, shot through by pellets of rain sliding down the windowpane, as the car picked up speed.

  “Look!” cried Tommy, looking out the window on the opposite side.

  “Where?”

  “Don’t you see ’em cats?”

  “Aw yeah!” Turner, Carl, and Eddie stood in the middle of the track about fifty yards from the shelter, waving their arms.

  “Tell ’im to stop!”

  “Aw, it’s too late now,” said Tommy. “I told ’um it was thataway ’steada thataway!” The streetcar swerved around a little bend and Turner, Carl, and Eddie were out of sight.

  “Boy! Do you know what time it is?” Rutherford cried when he entered the house. He sat on the edge of the bed, snuffing out a cigarette, while Viola slept peacefully within the rosy aura of the bed lamp.

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s damned near twelve o’clock! Didn’t you have sense enough to come in out a the rain? There’s somethin’ to eat in the kitchen, but git them wet clothes off first.”

  Viola stirred restlessly, rolled away from the light, and faced the wall. Rutherford helped him take his clothes off, warmed his pajamas before the fire, and helped him put them on. They went into the kitchen. There was a ham sandwich on top of the oven and a glass of milk and a piece of chocolate cake on the table.

  “How did you like it? Did you see all the pretty trees an’ stores an’ things?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Anybody say anything to you!”

  “Nosir.”

  He crammed the last of the sandwich into his mouth and started in on the cake, taking greedy swigs of milk between bites. His eyes were so heavy that he could hardly keep them open.

  When he had finished they went to the front of the house. Rutherford got in bed and put out the light.

  “Good night,” he said.


  “G’night.”

  “Don’t forget to turn off the stove, you hear?”

  No answer.

  “Amerigo?”

  “Yessir.”

  He stared at the light issuing from the stove. It cast a mysterious glow over the room. The little laced fire-brick columns through which the flames jutted were taller than they had ever been before. They grew taller and taller. He followed them up to the ceiling to where the urn filled with amber light hung down. Down … down … his gaze drifted with the huge flakes of snow, falling through the soft aura of amber light. He heard his shoes crunching the soft snow that fringed the edge of the great porch. Then there was a flicker of light:

  “Amerigo? You ’sleep?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Turn out the light an’ go to sleep, then.”

  He turned out the light, and then the stove. The color faded from the columns. The room grew dark. He climbed sluggishly into bed. As he settled himself under the covers he heaved a deep sigh. Then he turned and expectantly faced the window, but it was only filled with cold gray night light. He listened to the rain beating on the roof and on the pavement. His eyelids closed under the weight of the beating rain.

  “No luck,” said Rutherford bitterly, as he entered the kitchen the following evening. Viola was dipping the big spoon into the pot of chine-bones and beans.

  The telephone rang.

  “I’ll git it,” said Rutherford: “Hello? Hello? Unh!” He hung up and returned to the kitchen. “I wonder who that is? That’s the third time this week that damned phone’s rung an’ they hung up!”

  “Wash your hands, Amerigo,” said Viola in a controlled but casual voice, placing the bowl of chine-bones and beans, the plate of steaming corn bread, the pitcher of buttermilk, and a saucer of chopped raw onions on the table. After he and Rutherford had washed their hands they sat down to the table. Viola quietly scooped up some of the onions into her plate and then covered them with beans, taking the chine-bones in her fingers. She deftly pulled them apart, ferreted out the meat with her tongue, and sucked the juice from the bones. He copied her movements, while Rutherford thoughtfully sipped his buttermilk.

  “I got sixty-two cents!” he said suddenly, breaking the nervous silence. “An’ I got some milk bottles comin’ from Miss McMahon, an’ Mrs. Fox promised me a dime Sad’dy for goin’ to the store for ’er, an’ Miss Sadie’s gonna give me a dollar!”

  “That’s fine,” said Viola. “You gonna have a whole lot a money.”

  The telephone rang. Rutherford’s body stiffened. Viola continued eating without looking up.

  “You answer it this time. Maybe whoever it is’ll talk to you.”

  Viola got up without a word and went to the phone.

  “Aw, hi, girl! Sad’dy? Let me see … what time? I think that’ll be okay. Aw, so so. Naw! That’s too bad. Did she call a doctor? Honey — ever’body seems to be down in the mouth this Chris’mas! Thank the Lord we at least got our health! Now who you tellin’? Ain’ that the truth! I better knock on wood, though. Well, all right, girl, see you Sad’dy. Bye.

  “It was Allie Mae,” said Viola with deliberate coldness, as she sat down to the table and continued eating without another word.

  “How’m I gonna do my shoppin’?” he asked. “I don’t want nobody to see what they gittin’!”

  “Call Aunt Rose an’ ask her if you kin go with her when she goes Sad’dy, why don’t you?” said Viola.

  “You wrote your letter to Santa yet?” asked Aunt Rose. A rich aroma seemed to rise with each little burst of steam that escaped from the pot cooking on the stove.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Warming up to the smell, he noticed at the same time that the frost had etched beautiful patterns upon the window. He thought they looked like leaves; thinner than toilet paper. Autumn leaves came to mind. He tried to remember autumn, the first leaf that fell, the last, and then he saw them all, lying in a heap around the trees.

  Next year they gonna tear the schoolhouse down, he heard Rutherford saying.

  Last year? The leaves swirled up in bevies of color, yelling loudly, wildly, all at once.

  “What’d you ask ’im to bring you?” Aunt Rose asked. “Chris’mas’ll be here before you know it.”

  “A little horse an’ —”

  “A what?”

  “A horse, a real one, an’ a wagon, an’ a bicycle. But Mom says I need a pair a pants and a pair a boots — an’-an’-an’ Dad got real mad ’cause they was all wore out an’ he had to sell papers when he wasn’ no more’n — no older’n — me an’ he didn’ have no new ones — to buy no new ones ’cause Mister Mac didn’t pay ’im yet after he’s asked ’im three times already. An’-an’ then the telephone rung an’ didn’t nobody answer it an’ Dad got real mad! An’-an’ Mom said she didn’t know what she was gonna do, but we was gonna do somethin’. An’ then Dad said that Chris’mas ain’ nothin’ but just another day, no way … an’ —”

  “B-o-y! You kin talk longer’n a eight-day clock! What kind a wagon you want Santa Claus to bring you?”

  “A red ’un. A Western Flyer! With white rubber tires. They got a lot of ’um where Mr. Tom works ’cause Tommy said so. Tommy said it ain’ no Sanie Claus.”

  “How does he know?”

  “He said ’cause we ain’ got no chimney!”

  “Aw — I don’t think a little thing like that’d bother him none, do you?”

  “No’m, but …”

  “You hungry?”

  “No’m.”

  “You mean you couldn’ eat a li’l teenie-weenie piece a sweet patada pie?”

  She set the pie before him and poured out a glass of milk.

  “If you don’t want it, just let it set there. I’ll be back in a minute.” With that she raised herself slowly from her chair and shuffled heavily into the other room with a painful groan.

  Meanwhile he ate the pie, drank the milk, and studied the patterns of frost on the windows. He was about to conclude that they looked like the tangled branches of trees when she came back into the kitchen with a secret twinkle in her eyes, like when she had asked him if he couldn’t eat a “teenie-weenie” piece of sweet potato pie. Baby talk.

  “You through?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Come on in here with me, then.”

  They entered the front room. She stopped in front of the trunk next to the piano and lifted the lid. It was filled with a lot of clothes and little boxes and things.

  “See that bakin’ powder can?” she said.

  He discovered a large can with writing on it. It had a slit in the top, like the top of the box you put your money into on the streetcar.

  “I went to the Plaza!” he shouted excitedly, “all by myself! I got on an’ put the nickel in an’ got a transfer an’ rode all the way to the end of the line — an’ got off an’ walked around an’ looked at e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g! Reeeel pretty trees, an’-an’ b-i-g big big buildin’ with a lot of pictures inside! An’ we saw a ghost — An’ we run an’ run! Gittin’ out a there! Man oh man! An’ when I got back home it was twelve o’clock! Old Tommy said it ain’ no ghosts.”

  “Can’t say there is an’ can’t say there ain’,” she said, faintly smiling. “An’ I don’ know nobody you kin rightly ask. Them that says it is is prob’ly crazy, an’ them that says it ain’ is prob’ly lyin’. Never seen a dead man yet that’d come back an’ tell you what happened. But let me tell you a little secret: They’s a lot a folks walkin’ ’round who oughtta done been in the graveyard a long time ago!” Her eyes danced and her nostrils expanded slightly, and then the faint trace of a sad smile appeared upon her face.

  He picked up another photograph, in a wooden frame, about the size of a postcard. It had lain near the back of the tray, facedown. A tall thin man with a laughing face. His legs were crossed and his right arm was casually thrown around the waist of a guitar. His long strong fingers were stretched out over the keys.

  “That’s a ghost,” sh
e said softly.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t you know who that is, boy? That’s your Uncle Billy.”

  “But he ain’ dead!”

  “Naw, he ain’ dead.”

  She carefully placed the photograph in its old position, facedown.

  “Don’t you wanna see what’s in the can?”

  Her voice trembled and her bosom shook a little. He took the can up from the corner of the tray and twisted the top off. It was full of nickels.

  “Look!”

  “I been savin’ ’um for you the whole year. Every time I found a nickel in the corner of my handkerchief that wasn’ doin’ nothin’, I put it in.”

  “Kin I have ’um a-l-l?”

  “If you kin count ’um.”

  “He picked out one: One —”

  “Ain’t you forgot somethin’?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  He grinned ashamedly, and then threw his arms around her neck: “Thank you, ma’am.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  “You better git out a here, boy! It’s gittin’ late. You kin count ’um at home — an’ call up an’ tell me how many it is.”

  They had finished supper when he arrived. He burst excitedly into the kitchen: “Look what I got! An’ it’s a-l-l mine! Aunt Rose said so! But I have to count ’um an’ call ’er up an’ tell ’er how many it is!”

  “What on earth are you talkin’ about?” said Viola. “Did she give you somethin’ to eat?”

  He held up the baking powder can, screwed off the top, and poured the nickels out on the table.

  “Unh!” Rutherford exclaimed, dropping his paper, “Don’t forgit your pappy, boy!”

  “Ain’ that sweet!” said Viola.

  “She’s been savin’ ’um all year — just for me!”

  “She’s so thoughtful!” said Viola. “Why — I remember she usta have a bakin’ powder can for me, too. You remember, Rutherford? Momma’d let ’er take me town on Sad’dy, an’ she’d point to the trunk an’ say: Don’t you wanna know what’s in the can?”

  “That’s what she said to me, too!”

  “How much you got?” Rutherford asked.