Such Sweet Thunder

by Vincent O. Carter

  “Look out!” Tommy cried. A loud jagged sound whizzed past his face and bathed him in a backwash of cold air that caused his eyes to fill with water and the loose ends of his unbuttoned jacket to burst away from his immobile body.

  “You gonna git killed!” Tommy exclaimed, holding the lapel of his jacket in his clenched fist. “Didn’t you see that truck? You better learn to look where you goin’!”

  He walked blindly across the street.

  At the corner of Independence and Forest he paused in front of a candy store window. He gazed at the thick pulpy Indian Chief tablets with the big Indian head crowned with feathers of black and gold against a background of red. “Pontiac!” he heard Rutherford say, eyeing the penny pencils and the long yellow ones for a nickel. They lay next to the orderly bunches of pen-point holders — black, blue, red, yellow, and green. Fat round A’s, B’s, and C’s spread out over the ruled spaces of his mind and aligned themselves in marching formation along the edges of the deep black crevices between the floorboards of St. John’s and advanced through the breach at Independence and Troost and overtook him at Forest Avenue where they were joined by legions of wineballs upon which grains of sugar glistened like stars!

  “You gonna be late, man!” Tommy shouted from the middle of the next block. He and the others cut up through the ravine of a rather steep hill.

  “Come on up this way!” Turner yelled over his shoulder, but he followed the directions his father had given him down the avenue to the corner.

  Suddenly he heard a bell ringing like that of a g-r-e-a-t b-i-g alarm clock coming from far away! He looked anxiously down the street. There was no one in sight. One solitary cloud stood motionless in the sky.

  A leaf fell from the big cottonwood tree in the churchyard. There’s the church! Tired, panting for air, he paused to catch his breath. His heart pounded in his ears. There was no sign of the schoolhouse. But then he spied the upper stories of a strange and yet familiar redbrick building with many windows, standing earnestly in the morning sunlight.

  Finally he reached the stone wall bordering the playground. He beheld the Stars and Stripes waving listlessly in the breeze.

  Boom! the big front door banged against the back wall. He stepped inside: Boom! the door closed heavily behind him: Boom! Boom! Boom! the sound echoing down through the corridors. The steps whined noisily as he climbed the broad wooden stairs. He stepped onto the clean planks that ran side by side the full length of the hall.

  “Boy — your momma was late every day!” Rutherford exclaimed above the din of voices that poured through the transoms above the doors ranged along the hall: “An’ lie? Oooo-whee! She could really tel l’um!”

  “Well, you’ve managed to be late the first day!” said a voice.

  He looked up into the narrow mustard-brown face of a middle-aged man with short-cropped iron-gray hair and small brown eyes that blinked nervously, causing his thin, slightly hooked nose to wrinkle in the indentation just above the bridge.

  “Well — you’ve managed to be late the first day! Tisct-tisct,” sucking the air through the narrow gap between his front teeth in two quick bursts of menacing sound.

  “I-I —”

  “Come with me!”

  He followed him down the long hall. Pictures hung upon the cream-colored walls, mostly of bearded old men with bushy mustaches and fiery expressions in their eyes, as if they were really mad about something! Some of the men in the pictures were white and some were black, and in the very center of the wall there was a picture of George Washington. “The father of the country!” Tommy had declared.

  They came to a door.

  “Wait here.”

  You have to stay after school, he thought, and maybe get a whipping!

  “If you hit that boy one more time — I’ll …”

  “You may go in and find your seat,” the man was saying, while he looked up into his splotched purple face with awe.

  He stepped into the room and a flood of warm autumnal sunshine filled his face. He saw the silhouette of a woman sitting erect at a desk, hands clasped, in the far corner of the room beside one of four large windows. He timidly advanced, and was suddenly surprised by a wave of sniggering voices that rose upon the air. Half blinded by sunlight, he gazed upon an orderly crowd of black, brown, and beige faces, all of which were about as big as his own, sitting wide-eyed behind orange lacquered desks arranged in rows that extended the full length and breadth of the room.

  His glance took in the clean blackboard, which was bordered by a thin chalk line upon which the A-B-Cs were written in large fat letters and small fat letters.

  ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ — gimme! He imaginatively stretched out his hand and collected Unc’s nickel.

  “What is your name?” the woman was asking.

  “She was tall and thin lookin’,” he replied to Rutherford’s inquiry that evening as to how Miss Moore was looking these days: “with a lot a powder on. Her face looked purple. Like Miss McMahon’s when … But ’er eyes wasn’t Irish.”

  “What you mean, Irish?”

  “Blue.”

  “Where’d you git the idea that all Irish people got blue eyes, boy?”

  “They was real dark brown — almost black!… ’Cause they is!”

  “Are!” Viola corrected.

  “Are — what?” Rutherford asked.

  “Irish eyes. An’ they was black almost, like Aunt Tish’s, an’ she looked kinda like ’er, too, only ’er hair’s long like Gran’ma’s, but black instead of silver —”

  “You think Momma’s hair is silver?”

  “Ain’ it? Gran’ma’s got good hair, prettiest hair in the w-h-o-l-e w-o-r-l-d!”

  “Will you listen to this joker, Babe?” Rutherford grinned with apparent satisfaction.

  “Him an’ the whole world!” said Viola. “My momma had pretty hair, too! Even if it was nappy, but when it was just washed, it usta shine like nobody’s business!”

  “She ain’ lyin’, Amerigo!”

  “Miss Moore’s was wound ’round the top a ’er head with a big pretty comb — an’ b-i-g hairpins!”

  “What is your name?” the woman was asking.

  “Amerigo,” looking self-consciously at the faces of the children. Their eyes shone like dog- and cat-eyes in the bright rays of sunlight.

  “Amerigo — what?”

  The faces grinned, lips curved into peach-, prune-, and plum-colored crescents filled with big white milk teeth. Sniggers burst involuntarily through their noses.

  “Jones!” he blurted out, unconsciously drawing himself erect. The words resounded with a booming resonance that frightened him.

  The woman stood up, her figure tall and gaunt under her soft tower of hair. “Take your seat here,” the woman was saying.

  His eyes followed the direction indicated by her hand, the third seat in the front row. The polished nail of her forefinger glistened in the sun.

  “Like a magic wand. Like a queen! White as a white woman’s, but she’s a Negro just the same!”

  “Sit down, son,” said the woman gently.

  “Unh!” said Rutherford wearily as he entered the kitchen at five-thirty on a Monday evening. “The I-talians done moved out an’ the apartment on the first floor’s empty!”

  Just then Viola’s face appeared in the frame of the kitchen window. Rutherford stepped to the door, saying, “Git your daddy his house shoes. My corns is cryin’ — you hear me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Hi,” Rutherford said to Viola as she entered the door.

  “Hi,” said Viola, grunting under her heavy load. Rutherford took the sack from her arms and she sank into the chair near the sink, rubbing her wrists.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, handing Rutherford his house shoes. Then he took off his mother’s shoes and fetched Rutherford’s old pair of house shoes for her. She nodded thanks. Her face was ashen from the cold, thawing now in the warm damp air of the kitchen, the tip of her nose a deep purple color.

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nbsp; “The whiskey’s gone! Did you notice?” Rutherford asked, stretching out his hands before the oven.

  “I noticed it when I was comin’ up,” said Viola. “My arms!” still rubbing them.

  “Luggin’ ’em groc’ries is a mess, all right!” said Rutherford sympathetically.

  “They feel like they gonna break off! It’s a low-down dirty shame!”

  “What’s that?” asked Rutherford, reaching for his paper.

  “That you have to buy groc’ries all the way out there where the rich white people live — millionaires! — an’ lug ’um all the way through town on a crowded streetcar just to save a few lousy pennies on a can a this or a pound a that! An’ do you think any a those white men would git up! An’ let a — let you sit down? Honey, they watch you loaded down to the bricks an’ don’t even bat a eye!”

  “Yeah, it’s tough, all right,” said Rutherford. “What’s this?” noticing now a clean white envelope on the kitchen table. Amerigo looked nervously out the window.

  “What is it?” Viola asked. She looked worredly at him and handed the note that she withdrew from the envelope to Rutherford.

  “What?” he exclaimed, “late for school agin? Me an’ your momma workin’ an’-an’ damned near freezin’ to death to feed you an’ all you gotta do is go to a nice warm schoolhouse an’ be on time — an’ you can’t even do that! What’s the matter? Huh? Huh?” Amerigo looked at the floor. “I know what’s the matter: daydreamin’! You worse’n your momma was. You gotta go some to be late more’n your momma was! Got your head in the clouds all the time! You don’ see nothin’! Don’ hear nothin’! What do you think about all the time? Huh? Why — you damned near late every day! An’ come bringin’ home a M on your grade card last time! An’ you so smart an’ all that … an’ in arithmetic! I was one a the best li’l niggahs in arithmetic in the w-h-o-l-e school! Whasn’t I, Babe?”

  “You was good, all right. I wasn’t so bad, myself!”

  “Yeah,” said Rutherford, “an’-an’ you wanna go to college! Ain’ that a killer!” His face grew serious. “Amerigo?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Look at me when I talk to you!”

  Startled by the violent tone of his father’s voice, he snapped his head erect and looked into his face.

  “Yessir.” His lips trembled visibly, tears ran from the corners of his eyes, and a lump rose in his throat.

  “I-don’t-want-to-have-to-tell-you-’bout-bein’-late-for-school-no-more! You hear? Do you hear me? No more!”

  “Yessir,” he whispered. “Yessir, yessir, yessir.”

  “Yessir,” he had replied to Mr. Grey’s angry command that morning, a little while after the last bell had rung:

  “Come with me, young man!” his face twitching nervously.

  “Mr. Grey,” Miss Moore had protested, laying her arm protectively upon his shoulder, “don’t you think it would be better to let —”

  “That will be all, Miss Moore!” said Mr. Grey.

  “But, Mr. Grey, I —”

  “Young man, come with me!” He grabbed him roughly by the arm. Miss Moore’s face turned purple. “Mr. Johnson! Somebody get Mr. Johnson!”

  “Yes, sir!” replied Mr. Johnson, who suddenly emerged from the little crowd of teachers who had gathered in the hall. He carried a long push-broom in his hand.

  “Yessir?” smiling slyly.

  “We’ll have to teach this young man a lesson!” said Mr. Grey. “What would you do about a young man who is always late for school?” He spoke over his shoulder, as he raced down the hall, dragging Amerigo along with him.

  “Let me see, now,” said Mr. Johnson, rushing to keep pace with Mr. Grey. “I don’t rightly know just what I’d do at the moment!” He smiled and rubbed the smooth jet-black surface of his pomaded hair with the tips of his fingers.

  “Is the fire hot?” asked Mr. Grey.

  “What fire, Mr. Grey?”

  Mr. Grey turned on him with a look of extreme agitation.

  “I reckon so,” said Mr. Johnson, “I —”

  “Come-come!” said Mr. Grey to Amerigo, who had tried to slow down in order to catch his breath. “Late thirteen times in the past five weeks. We’ll have to show this young turtle. Ey, Mr. Johnson?”

  An acute pain smote him in the pit of his stomach, causing him to grip the muscles of his bowels, while a sweetish-sour spittle rose to his throat. His eyesight grew hazy and his temples throbbed. He followed Mr. Grey down the hall, past George Washington, down into the dark gray cement-floored basement where they played when the weather was bad. Empty now; their footfalls echoed throughout the vacant rooms that shot off from the main passageway through another passageway that led them past the gym where the odor of sweat rose, causing him to suddenly jerk his head aside. Just then Mr. Grey sucked the spittle through his teeth, causing Amerigo to stumble and Mr. Johnson to scuff the sole of his shoe against the floor. They were walking past the shower room where they bathed every Thursday. He could hear the hilarious screaming of naked children no bigger than he, he saw their bodies glistening in the falling water. And then the sound ceased abruptly: Boom! Mr. Grey had opened a huge iron door, motioned for him and Mr. Johnson to go in, and had closed the door securely behind him: Boom!

  They stood at the top of a cement staircase, looking down into the great furnace room. The huge furnace loomed up from the smooth concrete floor, a black iron house from which a quiet howling came. Like the wind in the empty house! he thought. He looked toward the upper reaches of the room. Hoary shafts of light streamed through three small windows near the ceiling. He followed the light down to the huge coal bins standing against the south wall opposite the furnace, which occupied more than half the area of a room almost as large as the gym. The bins were filled with great pyramids of coal.

  “Come-come-come! Tisct-tisct!” Mr. Grey grabbed him by the arm. He started to cry and pull back. He looked to Mr. Johnson for help, but he had already descended the staircase and now stood looking up at them with an expression of agitated expectancy upon his face. He was a tall slender man, but now he looked very short, very small beside the huge furnace, and his dusky skin seemed to be made of the same tough iron of which the furnace was made.

  Amerigo helplessly allowed himself to be dragged to the foot of the staircase. He stood trembling and whimpering in front of the furnace. Mr. Grey held him firmly by the shoulders.

  “Do you know what this is?” Mr. Grey demanded. “This is a furnace! This is where we put bad little boys who come to school late!”

  Amerigo’s body shook convulsively. He looked up into the face of the furnace, the upper half of which was full of deep cylindrical holes.

  They looked like eyes. A cold blast of air washed over his body: “Naw! Naw!” he cried. “Let me go! P-l-e-a-s-e let me go! I won’t do it no more! M-O-M!” writhing in Mr. Grey’s grasp: “MAAAma!”

  Meanwhile the eyes stared at him, the conscienceless yellow eyes.

  “Open ’er up, Mr. Johnson!” Mr. Grey laughed.

  Amerigo tried to break away. He fought with all his might, but Mr. Grey caught him by the leg and held him fast. A warm stinging sensation oozed between his legs and wet the seat of his pants.

  “I said OPEN THE FURNACE DOOR, Mr. Johnson!”

  Mr. Johnson opened the door. A brilliant yellow light cut a thick wedge into the gray atmosphere of the room and illuminated their faces, firing the pupils of Mr. Grey’s greenish brown eyes.

  “Put more coal on! Tisct! Tisct!” Mr. Grey had him now; he couldn’t get away. “Thirteen times tardy! We’ll have to teach this one a lesson that he’ll never forget! Be still!”

  Mr. Johnson stared at Mr. Grey for a moment, gritting his teeth so hard that the strained muscles of his jaw made a deep crease in his cheek.

  “All right, Mr. Johnson!”

  Mr. Johnson grabbed one of the huge widemouthed shovels that leaned against a square cement pillar, stepped over to the pile of fine rusty-looking coal, and scooped up a shove
l full. The shovel made a ringing sound as it scraped against the floor. He raised his arched body, lifting the shovel to the length of his arms, took two long sweeping strides toward the furnace, swinging the shovel back in an elliptical plane, its mouth aimed at the mouth of the furnace, and with one quick agile lunge swished it in: Woomb! It landed evenly upon the bed of coals, emitting a cloud of smoke permeated by a spray of yellow flames that shot up through the bed of fire like long yellow blades of grass.

  Beads of sweat stood out on Mr. Johnson’s face. The command obeyed, he stood rigidly, his shovel by his side, growling angrily at Mr. Grey.

  “NOW!” Mr. Grey cried. Amerigo felt himself swinging into the air, his head advancing near to the flames — and back. He tried to scream. His mouth stretched wide open and the veins of his neck and throat swelled out in tight blue chords against his black skin. BUT NO SOUND CAME!

  “You going to be late again?” asked Mr. Grey, laughing nervously within the vacuum of imprisoned sound. He tried to answer:

  “NAWSIR! NAWSIR!”

  But no sound would rise above the terror that stretched his jaws and strained his lungs. At the same time a wild uncontrollable laughter: Ha! — hahaha haaaaaaa! — filled his mind and terrified him even more.

  “Are you going to be on time from now on? SPEAK!”

  NO SOUND CAME.

  His head grew nearer the flames.

  “SPEAK!”

  He shook his head weakly from side to side, again and again, his face now bathed in a shower of sweat, the stench oozing uncontrollably from between his legs and down into his stockings. Mr. Grey released him. He crumbled to the floor, sobbing dumbly, shaking his head.

  “I think he’s learned his lesson, Mr. Johnson,” Mr. Grey was saying. “Haven’t you?” suddenly turning his eyes upon him again.

  “No more … no more … no more …” he muttered with great effort: “… No … more …”