Four Spirits

by Sena Jeter Naslund

“That’s right,” Stella murmured, as though she were there with them. “Backward.”

  Lionel said, “You did the right thing, Stella, to obey me when I said evacuate. Don’t go making them into some kind of heroes.”

  “Look,” Stella said, “that’s Jonathan Green.”

  While the four figures moved off the porch, Lionel thought, It could blow yet. The white man was taking his sweet time. Cat’s group had no sense of urgency. A monstrous fire could billow orange through the door and onto the porch and steps. Engulfed by a huge impatience, Lionel shouted, “Hurry up! Hurry up!”

  “We’re coming,” Mrs. LaFayt’s sweet voice called back to him through the hot night air. “We be there in a minute, Mr. Parrish.”

  He led the group out to meet the brave ones, but now his relief was bigger than his shame.

  THE WHOLE SCHOOL walked with Cat and Stella to their car. After the women were seated inside, and the wheelchair had been folded and hoisted into the trunk, the white man leaned his head into the car and spoke to Stella. Lionel leaned his head in on the passenger side and said to Cat, “You bring that thing to school again and you’re fired. No letter of recommendation, either.”

  Cat smiled at him. “I won’t,” she said. And he could see she was sincere, way too pleased with herself, but sincere.

  Then Lionel looked across the seat and introduced himself to the white man.

  “Jonathan Green, voter registration,” he answered and thrust his arm past Stella to shake hands.

  A New York Yankee, Lionel thought; he had a firm, warm hand. No sweat.

  While they all watched the battered-up old car creep off the campus, Christine renewed her invitation to the students for a gathering at her place. Mrs. LaFayt said she needed to go home, and Lionel escorted her to her car.

  When he stood alone at the circuit box with his hand on the big switch, he thought how just a half hour before, a white man had stood there. Evil leaves a presence, Lionel thought. He could almost smell the man—somebody stupid and poor. The tool of the rich white bosses. Somebody who didn’t even know he had been created to fight their battles for them. Somebody stood here ignorant of the industrialists’ fear of the unions, of their need for cheap bodies in dangerous places, of their need for replaceable black men in the steel mills. A man with no more mind than a robot had stood here and pulled switches. He had put his hand on the big switch not long before Lionel himself.

  Lionel pulled the lever, but he wondered whose tool was he? A hum came over the campus, lights jumped on. Just a simple, functional metal handle made the change. Let there be light. Cool to the touch, the handle felt like a bony hand holding out a finger at him, pointing at him. Mr. Bones. Let there be bright light, the disembodied voice mocked sarcastically.

  In the restored light, the hall stood barren. The cool handle of the lever still chilled Lionel’s hand. He made himself let go.

  Survived again? Now tell me, what do you want most out of this dark night?

  “Christine.”

  Close to Earth

  “SQUAT DOWN IN FRONT OF ME,” RYDER ORDERED LEE, “SO I can watch you. You try to slip off again, and I’ll kill you.”

  Ryder wished he’d placed the bomb snug against the bricks of the building. Instead, he’d left the bomb half a foot away. Crouching in the deep shadow of a building, Ryder dug his fingernails into the top of Lee’s shoulder and pushed down hard on her. He didn’t just use his fingertips, he made his fingernails dig into the flesh where her sleeveless blouse left off.

  “It’s just a school,” she whispered.

  “Shut up! God damn it! They’re coming out! Look at that!”Why would they leave now? he wondered. Why?

  The bomb was against the back wall where there were no windows, and people were coming out the front.

  “They’re coming this way!” he said. He waited, ready to run, but the students went another way. Ryder hadn’t realized that a college school, unlike high school, had a lot of different buildings.

  The campus was mostly deserted, but he’d seen them—integrated—through the windows. They were walking rapidly away from the building. Ryder thought they looked scared.

  “There’s one of them white teachers.” He said the word white like he was tearing it off with his teeth. “Bitch!”

  “Honey, let’s please go.”

  He paid no attention to Lee.

  “We can hear the boom from the car,” she said.

  “I want to see it,” he whispered. “I want to god damn see that shoe box blow sky high.”

  “You’re hurting my shoulder,” she sniveled.

  He dug his nails in deeper, and he was glad they were dirty with car grease. Piano music drifted their way. “It’s that redheaded fool,” Ryder said.

  “What’s he singing?”

  “Hell if I know. I’m gonna get him, too, someday. Look at that bitch over there. Her blond-headed and standing with all them niggers.”

  “It looks like nobody’s left inside.”

  “Yes, there is. The wheelchair girl’s still in there. They left her in there.”

  “They ought to take her out,” Lee said anxiously. “It’s just about time. They ought not have left her there. She can’t even stand up.”

  “Tough luck. She’s a nigger lover. How much longer?” He’d get one. At least one.

  Lee balanced herself on her knees and the knuckles of one hand so she could hold up her wrist to see Bobby’s Mickey Mouse watch.

  “It’s ten more minutes,” Ryder said.

  When he heard them starting up their protest song, he ground his teeth. Once again, he looked carefully for the wheelchair in the group, but it wasn’t there. He’d get her. Then he saw that the older woman was walking back toward the night school building. Earlier, when he peeked through the window, he’d seen her. She’d been about the only middle-aged woman in there. Her hose were twisted into a knot to keep them up, just behind her fat knee. Talking to herself, she had been fanning like crazy. He’d never seen anybody look so stupid. And now she was walking straight into death when she could have been safe.

  “She’s too stupid to live,” he muttered.

  Then a young nigger bitch started after the old one: three. He’d get three, almost as many as Bob got at the church. To his great joy, the skinny Jew piano player walked toward the night school. He was going to die, too. Hurry up, hurry up, Ryder thought. I sure don’t want you to miss the party. Ryder could hardly breathe he was so excited. Four! The hot night air slipped back and forth, shallowly, over his tongue. Ryder didn’t feel anxious anymore. Just eager. He’d get four.

  With his fingers locked into Lee’s slimy shoulder, they waited. After a few minutes, when he didn’t have anything else to think about, he realized his nails must have brought blood. In the comic book, Dracula’s fingernails were pointed like a woman’s so he could gouge. Ryder removed his hand and slowly took his fingertips to his lips. He didn’t want her to notice he was tasting her blood.

  He was getting away with it. He felt himself stiffen with pleasure.

  “Lie down, honey,” he whispered urgently.

  “What?”

  “Lie down so no flying brick’ll hit you.”

  Obediently, she stretched out on the grass and dirt. He began to lift her skirt.

  She giggled. “Honey, stop it,” she said.

  He hesitated. Stroking the hollow behind her knee, he thought how soft and smooth the skin was. Except the crease where it bent. The skin was hot and sweaty there. He thought about the black mammy’s coffee-colored hose twisted into a knot behind her knee.

  “I like that,” Lee said. “That’s so gentle.”

  He ventured up, exploring the back of her thigh. If she made a fuss, people might see them. They were in deep shadow, but her blouse was white and her skirt was a light tan.

  “Honey,” Lee said to her husband. “Lie down here beside me, so you won’t get hit.” Invitingly, she patted the ground beside her.

  He knew they’d ge
t dirty because there wasn’t much grass to speak of, but he stretched out on his stomach. Several times, he secretly squeezed his pelvis as flat as he could against the flank of bare ground and released. It was strangely satisfying.

  “How many minutes?” he asked, and she looked at the watch.

  “We’re almost there.”

  But the time came and went, and nothing happened.

  The wheelchair girl came out onto the little porch, and the black girl twirled her around and backed her off the step. The mammy and the Jew followed them. They all joined the others beside the piano building, and they talked and jabbered like folks let out of church. His bomb sat abandoned against a brick wall.

  Still, he begged the building to blow. Just to show them. Just to warn them.

  “Maybe it’s not going to,” she said.

  “Didn’t you check them wires? Didn’t you?”

  “About ten times.”

  “Don’t get smarty.”Blow, baby, blow. He’d never been so tense, wanted something to happen so bad, except maybe for Lee to say yes, when he asked her to marry him.

  “Oh well,” she said.

  “What do you mean Oh well? You don’t care!”

  Just then the whole group started to move away. He watched them drift across the campus. Sometimes one of them would laugh. They sounded happy. Not a care in the world. Off for a good-time Friday night.

  “They’re getting away,” he said, full of wonder. “Scot free.” He didn’t know how God could let them off.

  Then all his wonder turned to fury. It was Lee’s fault. She’d done something wrong, he knew it. She was always thwarting him. Taking Bobby’s side. She didn’t care—that was the proof of it. He doubled up his fists and pounded the ground.

  She giggled. “You look like a baby having a temper tantrum,” she said lightly.

  He leapt on her. He straddled her back and pinned her down and pounded her shoulders with his fists. She begged him to stop, but she kept her voice down. He stopped only briefly to unzip himself.

  Lifting her skirt and throwing the tail of it up over her shoulders, he ripped down her panties, yes, there was her bare ass, yes, he was on her, fierce as a Comanche warrior riding his horse. With one hand, he shoved her face into the dirt because she was trying to buck him off. He was wild with his need, wilder than Dracula. He heaved and panted, explained, as he continued.

  “I got to get some pleasure,” he gasped. “I—got—to have—it.”

  Agnes’s Honeybees

  WHEN AGNES REACHED HER CAR, SHE WAS SURPRISED TO see the packages on the backseat and the sack with three rolls of different Christmas wrapping paper sticking out of the top like candy canes.

  In the evening’s excitement, she’d completely forgotten her spree before she came to school. She felt ashamed of herself. All on a whim, she had given into the “Christmas Preview Sale” at the drugstore. She’d gone there just to get another ice pack for TJ. She had discovered a swollen place big as a goose egg on his shin.

  But then the drugstore display showed all manner of nice toys for kids on sale. A big plush red bear, a little mirror and comb set made of pink plastic, a whole box of wooden paddles with rubber balls attached. She used to watch boys play with that toy when she was a girl. Big boys could dance on their roller skates and paddleball so fast the ball was just a blur. And next to the paddleballs were Slinkys, which could be worn on the arm like a bracelet.

  And there the toys were, all in the backseat. Maybe she was just getting too impulsive.

  This evening, she’d been outside, all safe, and she’d just had the impulse to walk right back in that building and sit down with Cat. What would TJ do without her? She’d known the girl had to be near ’bout scared to death, had to be, and if she wanted to sit with her—well, that was her choice to do. But going after Christmas now! Each toy had been like some child smiling at her.

  Agnes settled into the driver’s seat, and then she heard a voice clear as if he was sitting in the seat beside her. She knew that voice.

  “That you again?” she said.

  And then he shut up. Oh, he was a trickster, all right. She just waited patiently.

  Then she heard him again; he had such a snide voice: “Second childhood, Agnes?”

  As always, she spoke to him out loud. “Oh, I know you. I just ain’t gonna pay you no attention. Can’t get my goat.”

  “Now, Mrs. Agnes, you ought to be friendly. You privileged to have a friend like me. I’m your guardian angel, ain’t I? You ought to look out for my welfare.”

  She started the motor.

  He went on, “You look out for me—it just the same as looking out for you.”

  “Like looking out for a part of me, maybe. The worst part.”

  “Why, I’m just a little voice inside your own head.”

  “I got better voices than you to listen to.” She took one hand off the steering wheel and pressed her bosom. “In here.”

  “You’re getting too involved with impulsive people, Agnes. Hard telling what they want you to do next.”

  “You ain’t nothing but mental illness.”

  “If you’d listened to me,” he said, “you’d be a happy woman today.”

  “That right!?” she said. “I don’t believe that and when I get home, I tell TJ you’re bothering me again.”

  “Figure it up. Here you worried about a little impulsive spending! Consider that tithe promise. Instead of ten dollars on the hundred, suppose all these years you done just gave nine. Suppose that you had for yourself or your own loved ones one out of every ten dollars you gave the church, for—how long?”

  “Thirty years,” she said. And she thought how she’d stopped short of buying a little electric train at the pre-Christmas sale. “I been a faithful tither for thirty years.” One dollar a week made fifty-two in a year. Take fifty-two thirty times and that was money worth having.

  “And how’s that good husband anyway?”

  “He just like always. He good. He give me a brain pill when I get home, and you be knocked dead, you old haint.” The doctor had explained it. Some people saw haints, others heard them. Once TJ told her the tithe was just too high a cut; they ought at least to take it out of what was left after expenses, not before. But when he saw the expression on her face, he never said that again.

  “TJ good for sitting in the easy chair, yeah? He good on the dance floor and good at praying in the church pew. Oh, yeah. But where’s all your fine children and grandchildren, woman?”

  “They in my heart.”

  She heard laughter like bones rattling. Her hair tried to stand on end. She looked hard at the seat beside her. Just as she was about to see him, she had to look straight ahead. Something was passing in the road ahead, a kind of ghost cat, running hard from one side of the road to another. But she’d gotten a glimpse of him, Mr. Bones. As a child, she’d seen him in the old-timey minstrel shows, so she knew what he looked like.

  In the car, sitting on the bench seat beside her, he’d been almost transparent. He’d had one skeletal foot cocked up on the other thigh. It was just the vaguest outline of bones, maybe something of the rib cage, that she’d discerned. He looked like an X ray.

  “Li’l spirits,” she called out as if she was calling the chickens to get their grain. “Little girls.”

  They came buzzing like honeybees.

  We’re here

  Don’t be scared

  You be all right

  Once you get home

  How to Dream

  TOO EARLY, AUNT DEE WANTED LITTLE DIANE TO CLOSE her book and go to bed.

  “You try to read with a flashlight, and I skin you,” Dee said.

  Diane wondered if a person could be skinned like a deer, or a rabbit, but she didn’t say anything to her auntie.

  Mumbling, Dee explained she needed to put her head down quick and take her table nap. “I want this kitchen dark for my nap,” Dee said. Even the lamp on low hurt Dee’s eyes.

  Diane wanted a biscuit
and some molasses, but Dee would not hear of it.

  “Gotta sleep, gotta sleep, gotta close these eyes right now,” Dee said.

  As she watched Diane lie down obediently on her pallet in the bedroom, Dee advised her just to drift on off to dreamland. Diane wished her bed wasn’t so low.

  When she heard Dee snoring in the kitchen, Diane knew her auntie had drifted off.

  You need a boat to drift, Diane had thought, and she imagined herself a red canoe. What a lovely fresh-learned word:canoe. In the canoe, Diane had a paper sack with the top rolled shut, and the bag had a biscuit in it. The biscuit was wrapped in wax paper. In the top of the biscuit, somebody had jobbed a hole with her finger, and through the hole the innards of the biscuit had been saturated with molasses. Diane wanted the biscuit so bad she could taste it. And then she was tasting it, and another part of her mind knew the red canoe had taken her to dreamland.

  But there were a lot of other people there too. Talking and talking. And her mother was in charge, of course. Diane dreamed she walked back into the kitchen, and she’d never seen so many people in the kitchen. Aunt Dee was sitting upright, alert. Her rooster hair stuck up straight and alert, too. Occasionally Dee said something. Dee was interested. Dee’s voice was getting high-pitched and excited. Woolworth’s, they were saying. The Crystal, White Palace. Stools and counters. Hamburgers.

  Through a crack in the door, Diane saw the light of one candle burning. The electricity must have gone off, or maybe it was a secret meeting. Yes, it felt like a secret. “Pipe down,” somebody said to Dee. But there was her mother’s voice crooning to Dee, including Dee. The room was full of spirits all crowded together. Sprawled on the floor, perched on the counter. In a kitchen chair, a girl sat on a big boy’s lap. “This is a business session,” her mother said, but what was that in her mother’s voice—something warm and bubbly, something sweet as candlelight.

  And streets were mentioned and different times of day. Nonviolence. Nonviolence. The syllables clamored like Halloween noisemakers. Then feet were moving. Non, nonviolence. Spirits flew up right through the ceiling. They evaporated like a pan full of water neglected on the stove. Just a little more bubbling, then a hissing, and they were gone.