Such Sweet Thunder

by Vincent O. Carter

  He had to follow the van into the basement of the courthouse — with his eyes only, at first, thrilling to an exciting temptation that made him hesitate in the middle of the drive. There’s where they give them the third degree!

  Without realizing it, he had entered the basement. He was standing before an office next to which was a big room closed off with real bars. He peeped in.

  “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’ THERE!” exclaimed an angry voice.

  From the corner of his eye he saw the towering figure of a white policeman with a gun and bullets around his belt, just in time to duck under a big red palm swinging toward his head.

  “If I catch your little black ass in here agin, I’ll kick the shit out a you!” the officer declared.

  Trembling from head to foot, teeth chattering, he strained his will in order to hold his buoyant flesh back to a walk.

  “I said, GIT!” shouted the voice somewhere behind him.

  WALK! cried Frederick Douglass.

  Rattle! Rattle! rattle! His stick grating against the iron bars.

  WALK!

  Sunlight from the street bathed his face. A feeling of relief accompanied by a seizure of violent trembling confused his diminishing feet as he stumbled over the deep crevices between the great blocks of cement paving down the long long street. With much difficulty his shriveling legs strained to span the endless inches of the way back through the ravaged no-man’s-land of the Ten Year Siege.

  “WHERE’N THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?” Rutherford shouted.

  “Come here!” he commanded.

  Amerigo approached him cautiously, coming to a halt a few feet from where he sat, well out of range of his long powerful arms.

  “You hear me talkin’ to you?” Rutherford was saying.

  Dumbly he studied the floorboards of the porch.

  “Baby?” A woman’s voice.

  “Leave ’im alone!” said Rutherford, “I want to know where he’s been — till six o’clock! Who in the hell does he think he is? This ain’ no restaurant — no ho-tel or nothin’ — where he kin just come an’ go as he pleases. I come home an’ found the front door an’ the back door all open. Didn’ even make up his bed. I’m gittin’ sick a this crap. The bigger he gits the less he tries to help us. Us out workin’, tryin’ to take care of ’im, an’ he don’ even appreciate nothin’! So busy playin’ — all day! — that he can’t even come home an’ make up his bed. Ain’ even got time enough to eat his supper. You better git ’im out a my sight, before I beat all the black off that little niggah!”

  Viola eyed him significantly, and he moved covertly, under the protective complicity of her gaze, into the house.

  “Wash your hands an’ face,” she said.

  He washed his face and hands. Then he sat down to the table and faced the bowl of lukewarm fried cabbage alone. He crammed his mouth with corn bread, onions, and salt pork so that he would not taste the cabbage. He swilled down his buttermilk. All the while he felt Rutherford’s gaze, through the Star, through the screen, intensifying the glare of the naked light overhead. As he was finishing, the screen door opened and Rutherford stood over him.

  “An’ when you git through, I want you to wash up the dishes. Look!” He opened the oven door, “All them! Pots an’ pans you been soakin’! An’ clean all that crap from behind the sink.”

  “Yessir.”

  Rutherford stalked into the middle room where Viola was making up the bed.

  “What you doin’?” Amerigo heard him ask. “Let him do it! He been out playin’ all day. Let him earn his keep! I better go down on the porch ‘fore I kill both a you.”

  He heard Rutherford going down the stairs, and Viola’s footfall as she approached him.

  “Babe!” Rutherford called from the corridor, “you come on down here with me, an’ leave that little niggah by hisself!”

  She smiled sadly at him and turned to join Rutherford.

  “A one-two-three-fo’! A-one-two-three-fo’!” shouted a husky voice from the alley, accompanied by the sound of tramping feet:

  “Column right — ho!”

  Laughing commentary up and down the alley.

  Mr. Man o’ War, playin’ army, he thought, seeing Maxine, Sammy, Willie Joe, Annie, and the rest marching single file.

  “Column lef’ — harch!”

  “Hee! hee!”

  “Aaaaaw — do it, then!”

  “When war do come, we sure gonna be ready!”

  “Mark tiiime — hark!”

  Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! gradually accompanied by a low growl coming from the distance, growing louder, drowning the tramp-tramp-tramp-tramp of the time-marking feet, which now slowly rose to the foreground of sound, as the growl moved farther up the avenue. Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! between the noisy rattle of Bra Mo’s truck and the bang of a neighboring screen door: Boom!

  “Momma, where’s Toodle-lum?”

  “I don’ know, Pearl, ain’ he with you?”

  “No’m.”

  “Toodle-lum! Aw-Toodle-lum!”

  Then he gathered the dishes together and stacked them on the drainboard. He poured the hot water into the dishpan, watched the soap flakes fall from the corner of the box like snow, turned on the cold water, and watched it foam like beer. He slid the dishes in, plate after plate, in a long chain of plates, of cups and saucers, a glistening chain of knives, forks, and spoons.

  Gradually all the sounds from the alley, the boulevard and the avenue, and from the neighboring houses faded into the background of his consciousness. His mind forgot what his hands were doing, and his hands worked independently of his eyes, which had closed him into the voluminous feeling of blackness, from the depths of which an unheard voice echoed from a long way off:

  “Deeee-ee — eep ri-ver! My home is oooooo-ver Jordan. Deeeeee-ee — eep ri-ver, Lord, I want to crooooooss o-ver intoooooo — campground!”

  His blind fingers lifted the dish towel from the nail and rubbed it over the surfaces of the plates.

  “Oh — don’t you wa-an-na go-ow —”

  Plate after plate.

  “to that go-ah-spel pee-eace! To that praaaah-ah-mised la- and where aw-awl is peee-eace? Deeee-ee — eep ri-ver, L-o-r-d! I want to crooooss o-ver intoooo — campground!”

  He scrubbed the pots and pans and cleaned the tray under the burners of the gas range. He scrubbed the kitchen table clean, let down the wings, and spread a fresh tablecloth on it, to the accompaniment of the unheard voice singing the quiet melody that was enclosed within the dark chamber behind his eyes. Tremulously his lips repeated the words:

  “Deeee-ee — eep ri-ver.”

  He cleaned the trash from behind the sink and scrubbed the shelves of the cupboard and rinsed the dishrag out and poured the dirty water into the sink, wiping the greasy ring from the dishpan and hanging it up on the nail between the sink and the cupboard. Then he sprinkled the scouring powder into the sink and scrubbed it until it sparkled. That done, he rinsed out the dishrag again and hung it on the nail beside the dishpan, and hung the dish towel beside the dishrag. Then he swept the floor.

  And suddenly he was finished. The melody had fled in the face of his self-consciousness, and the words of the song were crowded out of mind by thoughts that were animated by the clean shining objects in the orderly kitchen. Like Booker T. Washington’s, he thought for an instant, and then the thought suddenly disappeared as quickly as it had come, into the blue darkness of the middle room and became lost within the depths of a pleasant melancholy feeling. He turned on the rose-shaded lamp and began putting the room in order.

  “You ain’ been blue,” he sang, hanging Rutherford’s pajamas on a hook in the closet, putting Viola’s stockings in the middle drawer of the chest of drawers: “Nooooo-no-no …! Yoooou ain’ been bluuuuuuue —” arranging the shoes in a neat row in the little space between the bed and the chest of drawers, dusted the bedposts and the vanity dresser and the back, runners, and rounds of the wicker-bottomed rocking chair. “Till you’ve h
ad that — mooood indigo. That feelin’ … comes stealin’ —” His eyes closed before the mirror of the vanity dresser. “down to my —”

  “Now git to bed!” said an imperative voice.

  Boom!

  He opened his eyes and stared into the mirrored image of Rutherford’s face. The skin tightened around his diminishing body and the floor rushed up to meet his downcast gaze.

  “Yessir.”

  He sank heavily into bed. He heard Viola ascend the stairs and enter the room. He closed his eyes when she arranged the covers.

  “Good night,” she whispered. He did not answer. She went into the kitchen where Rutherford was. Low mumblings filled the front room. Now there were other voices, four. Then laughter, and movement, the icebox door opened and shut, beer bottles hissed open, and finally there was the smell of frying hair.

  “Sund’y,” said one of the voices.

  Sund’y! He felt the word whirl around in the darkness under his tight skin like a sun, deeper and deeper into the blackness flowing like a river, flowing like a deep black river, fluid black flesh flowing like a deep black river: I want to c-r-o-s-s … o-ver into….

  A bell!

  A bell ringing.

  A bell ringing from a tower.

  Birds twittering amid the sound, golden sound, sunny sound, ringing in a rosy blue wash, sunny-golden, filling the front window, while a long beam of fluid gold sunlight slowly advanced through the kitchen door. He listened to its advance, egged on by the ringing bell. The bell ringing from the tower of the Catholic church down from the spaghetti factory, down on Cherry.

  “Cherries are ripe! Cherries are ripe!” twittered the sparrows, the robins sang, “Again, again!” while the Sunday-morning air rushed in and out of Viola’s and Rutherford’s lungs, Amerigo’s the fastest, then Rutherford’s and then —

  Boom! The Sunday Star landed on the porch with a gentle thud. A tingling coolness tickled his feet, as he ran down the corridor stair and onto the porch, just in time to catch the streetlights dozing faintly yellow in the face of the rising sun, just before they dropped off to sleep. Out!

  By the time Rutherford got up to go to work he had read and neatly folded the funny paper and lay opossum-fashion, waiting for him to leave.

  Now that he had gone, he waited for the sun to steal into the middle room and fire the hem of the sheet of Viola’s bed. He waited for her to feel the heat of the burning sheet, and stir, and stare, pink-eyed, into the mirror of the vanity dresser, and wonder, and then suddenly know, and look at the clock and yell:

  “Boy? You awake? It’s time for you to git up an’ go to Sund’y school!”

  Clean, dressed up in his Sunday suit, he stepped out into the redeeming light of Sunday morning. Head high, shoulders back, he walked under the burning wires and was not afraid. The Lord smiled down out of heaven: Surely goodness and mercy shall fa-ah-low me — ee all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord — for ever!

  He sat attentively in his Sunday school class and listened while Sister Mayfield spoke of how angry it made Jesus when he found the money changers in the temple, and how He got mad for the first time in His precious life, and drove them out!

  The bell rang. He handed the collection money to Sister Mayfield, collected the books, took his seat, and waited for Sunday school to close. Meanwhile the reverend eased in quietly and took a seat near Sister James. She rose to her feet with a tired grunt and asked for the secretary’s report and sat down again. The secretary made her report. Then Sister James rose again and smiled a greeting to the reverend, thanking him for his presence. “The members of Saint John’s are truly blessed —” she said, “in havin’ a faithful leader who never forgits to look after the tiniest members of his flock!”

  “A-men!” said Aunt Nancy.

  The reverend smiled upon his flock, and his flock beamed under his loving gaze.

  “I’m — I’m especially glad that the reverend’s here this mornin’,” said Sister James, “ ’cause the Lord’s work has been called to my attention. An’-an’ I felt that it’s my duty to speak out, to root out the truth from its hidin’ place!”

  “A-men!” said the reverend approvingly amid a chorus of a-mens resounding throughout the room.

  “I believe that!” Sister James continued. “I believe that if your house ain’ in order, you oughtta clean it up! When you hear the Lord come knockin’ on your door it’s too late then!”

  “Speak to ’er, Je-sus!” cried Brother Jones. Smiles animated the faces of the congregation.

  “I — I was checkin’ the rolls down through the years,” said Sister James, “tryin’ to keep track a our young ’uns. I know most of ’um by heart. Know they mommas an’ poppas. But every now an’ agin a face drops out a sight, a name escapes your mind — an’ you wonder what happened!”

  “A-men!”

  “Now, we’re startin’ our membership drive pretty soon, an’ I kinda wanted to account for ever’body. Well sir! The Lord sure works in mysterious ways! I got to — got to lookin’, an’ a-lookin’, an’ not findin’, till I come to the conclusion that some a our most reg’ler members are still sinners!”

  “AAAAAAW!”

  The reverend scrutinized the children, as though he would ferret out the money changer.

  “They names,” Sister James was saying, “don’ appear on the rolls — nowhere! One in partic’lar happens to be one a our most outstandin’ members! A-mer’go, honey, do you know you still walkin’ in sin?”

  “NAAAAAW!”

  “That you ain’ been baptized in the name of the Redeemer, Jesus Christ!”

  Suddenly the room was full of huge accusing eyes looking at him.

  “That you ain’ been born agin? Help me, Jesus! Help me touch this child’s heart!”

  “AAAAAAA — MEN!”

  “An’ there are others, too!” continued Sister James. “Reveren’, I think we oughtta just be late closin’ the Sunday school this mornin’ an’ extend the invitation to these children to join the Lord’s flock!”

  “AAAAA-MEN!”

  The reverend rose, a tall handsome shadow trimmed in gold.

  “Yeah!” he sighed, “I think we a-l-l oughtta say, A-men!”

  “AAAAA-MEN!”

  “We oughtta utter — from the depths of our hearts — a word of thanks to this good sister, who is never — never! — too tired to work for Jesus. A-men!”

  “A-MEN!”

  “I don’ know — the Lord knows! — how it sometimes happens that our children just get pushed out into this sinful world like counterfeit money an’ we expect ’um to pay the price of salvation with it!”

  “Yes, Lawd!”

  “Tee! hee!”

  “Talk to ’im!”

  “An’ then,” said the reverend, “then one day there comes a vigilant, God-fearin’ soul who hears the word: Go separate the brass from the gold! An’-an’ declare what is false to be false! God bless Sister James! Now, Amer’go an’ the rest a you young folks, we gonna bow our heads in silent prayer for you! With all our love, with all our hope, with all our will, we gonna pray that the Vision of our Lord an’ Savior, Jesus Christ, fills your hearts an’ eyes, that you’ll be able to see God’s-only-begotten-Son — alone! — with the cross on his back. Alone! wearin’ a crown of thorns upon His precious head, climbin’ up Calv’ry Hill!”

  “Oh Lawd! Lawd! Lawd! Lawd!” sang a mournful voice.

  “A-looooone! Among the taunts! an’ the jeers of the Roman soldiers! Under a thunderin’ sky with stained bloody clouds! I-IIII-I want you to feeeeel! FEEEEEL! feel the nails tearin’ holes in the palms of His gentle hands an’ feet. Fee-eeee-eeel! Aaaaaaw-feel! Help me, Jesus! if You please!”

  “Uhmmmmmmm!” moaned an anonymous voice.

  “FEEEEL the sharp steel! piercin’ His side. Look! See the look in His eyes when He raises up His head toward heaven, an’ mumbles in His weakness: My God oh my God! why — oh why — hast Thou forsaken me?”

  A
low primeval moan rose from the back of the church, a black alluvial moan.

  “See His head fal-fall-faaaal upon His chest! An’ now watch death steal into His immortal eyes. See how His lips tremble upon the words His bleedin’ heart commands them to say? Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Forgive the sinners, the liars an’ the backbiters an’ the backsliders! Forgive the innocently born for they know not what they do!”

  “A-MEN!”

  “That was a day, children!” declared the reverend. “Children! Christians of tamarra, the hope of the God-fearin’ future! Are we gonna let Jesus die in vain! Are we gonna waste the precious blood of Christ upon the barren rocks of sin? Have pity! Have mercy upon Him, the only Son of our Great an’ Lovin’ God who first had pity on you. Who gave His-only-begotten-Son that you might live!”

  The moan grew into a deep mysterious chant that had no words, and which only the old folks knew. It trembled upon the air like a living thing. It throbbed like a heartbeat. It swelled and broke upon the shores of the mind like waves of sea. It churned itself into a seething foam of passion that slowly receded into the secret depths of a primordal stillness: still …

  “Rise! and prepare to face your God!” the reverend commanded.

  Amerigo, paralyzed within his black foul flesh, watched the sinners rise from the midst of the throng of eyes.

  “Don’ hesitate! Come now! Come down an’ accept the hand of fellowship in Christ. Tamorra may be too late! For if you deny Me here on earth, so will I deny you before My Father who is in heaven!”

  “Praise Je-sus!” cried Brother Dixon.

  Meanwhile the false coins moved tremulously down the aisle to the table where Sister James stood with her eyes closed and her lips bent upon a silent prayer, while the reverend greeted them with the welcome hand of forgiveness.