“That’s right, Mister Stewart.” He joined the fat man in laughter. One by one, so did the other men: “I get his meaning.”
The boy pushed his way through the gathering and with the fat man’s help, tugged Bradshaw to his feet.
Dewey was on his feet too, realizing they were not stopping, but rather drawing out the ritual. “You can’t do that to him!” He rushed into the mob, his head down, his fists swinging, but was caught tight just short of the boy by two or three men.
The boy looked up. “Somebody get a rope from Thomason’s and tie up this nigger-lover. If we hurt him we WILL be in trouble. His pa’ll put us off his land.” Several men held Dewey while someone ran for the rope, returned; they bound him hand and foot and pushed him down to the pavement.
“Now let’s get on with our show. What can you do, nigger? All you niggers can do something.”
Bradshaw stood dazed and bleeding between the boy and the fat man, his clothes ripped and rumpled, his glasses, miraculously still on his nose, a bit crooked. He did not answer.
“Talk now! What do you know?”
The fat man balled his fist. “I’ll make him talk.”
“No, Mister Stewart, there’ll be time enough for that. Right now, he’s being good enough to entertain us. What do you know? Do you know ‘Curly-Headed Pickaninny Boy’?”
Dewey saw Bradshaw nod; of course he knew, everybody knew it; it was a song liberal-minded third-grade music teachers in New York, Chicago, Des Moines, San Francisco, and all the towns in between had their pupils sing to acquaint them with Negro culture; in Cambridge it was sung whenever anyone with a guitar who prided himself as a folk singer got together with a group of people who considered themselves folklorists; it was known all over the country, had been sung for a long time. And Dewey realized that Bradshaw’s nod had signified a knowledge of something else; he knew now and could understand why the Negroes had left without waiting or needing any organizations or leadership.
“Well then,” the boy started and then his eyes narrowed. “Sing it.”
Bradshaw sang softly in an off-key, near monotone:
Come, come, come to your mammy,
My curly-headed pickaninny boy.
Come, come tell me your troubles
And mammy will give you joy.
I know what you need is a kiss on the cheek,
To sooth all the bad dreams that on you sneak—
So,
Come, come, come to your mammy,
My curly-headed pickaninny boy.
It was a fast song, with a cakewalk beat, and sounded strange coming from Bradshaw because, with his British accent, he pronounced all the words correctly without a trace of a Negro accent. The men did not like it that way and began to grumble. “He ain’t very good.”
The boy gripped him by the throat. “This time sing it like a nigger, nigger.”
The fat man wanted something else: “Yeah, and dance too!”
“And sing loud so I can hear it,” shouted someone at the edge of the crowd.
Dewey sat straining against the ropes, but could not free himself. He had been yelling for them to stop, but no one paid any attention.
Bradshaw started again, this time hopping comically from one foot to the other, his stomach jouncing. He had half-finished when the boy stepped in front of him and punched him full in the face. “You stink! Get him in the car. We might as well use his car to take him. It’s bigger. More of us can go.” The boy and the fat man grabbed Bradshaw by the shoulders, half carried, half dragged him, almost over Dewey, back to the car, tossed him in.
“He didn’t have anything to do with it!” Dewey twisted toward the car; the chauffeur had fled, no one had seen him go. Someone climbed into the driver’s seat, found the keys, started the motor, making more noise revving it up than was necessary. The driver was calling to the others to climb in, and Dewey heard the doors slam, one—two—three—four. He tried to scramble to his feet, still yelling after them, but he had not even gained his knees when it sped off, up the Highway in the direction of Tucker Caliban’s farm. Even when he could no longer see it, he could still hear the motor.
“But he didn’t have anything to do with it.” He slumped, like a baby sitting down, and began to cry.
The street was empty; peaceful like a spot where a rock has been newly turned, after the bugs have scampered away and there is no sign of bugs ever having been there. Dewey was sitting almost on top of the white line, crying in the stillness.
Then he heard the squeaking wheels, the constant, piercing scream of the unoiled joints; saw the chair and the erect, limp-haired woman and the old man coming out of the shadows. He said nothing and they did not see him at first. Then they were close enough to hear his quiet crying and started toward him. “Who they got, Mister Willson?” Before Dewey could answer, the old man turned to his daughter. “Untie him, honey.”
She let go the back of the chair and came around behind him. He felt her soft hands on the coarse ropes; the pain stopped as his bonds loosened. “Reverend Bradshaw. They think he did it…started the Negroes off. I have to hurry. Maybe I can save him.” He jumped to his feet as soon as she untied them.
“You might as well not try, son. You won’t get there in time. And they’ll be worse after they’ve done it. None of them’ll come to town tomorrow…won’t be able to face each other for a while.” The old man looked sad.
“You actually feel sorry for those bastards! Well, maybe you won’t do anything, but I have to do what I can.” He took a step away from them.
“You can’t do anything, boy.” The old man raised his voice. It rang quietly down the empty street.
The lights of an oncoming car shone on the buildings. The old man’s daughter rushed to the chair and wheeled it closer to the curb.
“Boy! Look at this car!” The old man swiveled and shouted at him. “Study it!”
Dewey turned and watched the car. There was a fat Negro driving. His wife sat peacefully beside him, her eyes awake and bright. In her arms was a small child, a girl with many tiny parts in her hair; she was sleeping. The back seat was piled high with luggage.
“Yes, I feel sorry for my men. They ain’t got what those colored folks have.”
Dewey was still watching the car. It had reached the outskirts of town and then was gone. He approached the old man.
“If it’ll make you feel any better, Mister Willson, that’s the last time. And I’ll tell you something else.” The old man looked up at him and smiled. “The General wouldn’t have approved.” He turned to his daughter. “We still got some coffee in the pot, honey?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Mister Willson, how’d you like some coffee? You better not go home just yet. You better clean up first.”
Dewey nodded and they started up the street together.
* * *
—
MISTER LELAND did not know what woke him. At first he thought it was Walter shifting, recoiling from a many-headed monster in his dreams, but when he looked over at his brother, he found him in the same position into which he had wriggled just after their mother had kissed them good night. And then he heard it again: a scream.
It came from the direction of the Highway, maybe up near Tucker’s, came through the muffling trees separating their two farms. Maybe Tucker was back and having a party. But where? Tucker did not have a house. But he could be having it outside, it was warm enough, and besides, no one else would be at Tucker’s farm.
He started to shake Walter to tell him Tucker was back and having a party. Now he could hear other voices, other men laughing, and he knew they must all be Tucker’s friends, slapping him on the back, happy to see him again, especially since they thought he had left for good. He stopped shaking Walter because the shaking and nudging had done no good, and even if Walter were to wake up, he would be too
groggy to understand anything.
Mister Leland lay on his back, listening to the faint laughter and to someone who had started to sing and thought about the party. They might have popcorn there, and candy, and soda. It would be a good party, with people happy to see each other like the reunions his people had at his grandfather’s house in Willson City. He had been to only one of those reunions himself and even though he had been very small, he could remember it very well. He had been lying in bed, and could hear the grown-ups laughing and singing and when he got up in the morning, they were all asleep, even his grandfather who was a farmer like his own father and usually started work while it was still dark. He had gotten up, the only person awake in the house, had gone into the parlor and found they had left some of the candy and popcorn from the night before. When everybody finally woke up, red-eyed and wrinkled, his uncles and aunts, he had already eaten enough of the leftover party food not to be hungry any more.
He lay on his back and thought about that, and then he knew what he would do when morning came. It would be Sunday and first they would eat and go to church, where his mother taught Sunday school, and then they would come home. He would take Walter by the hand and they would go back through the woods and come out on Tucker’s field. Tucker would see them and wave and they would run across the soft, gray earth of the plowed and salted field toward him. He would say hello, and would be glad to see them. Mister Leland would show him Walter.
Then Mister Leland would ask Tucker why he came back. Tucker would say he had found what he had lost, and he would smile and tell them he had something for them. He would bring out large bowls of the leftover candy and popcorn and cracker-jack and chocolate drops. And they would eat until they were full. And all the while, they would be laughing.
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A Different Drummer Page 20