And Then We Heard the Thunder

by John Oliver Killens

  He was on the bloody beach—red beach again—and the thunder and the lightning and the dying and the bleeding and the moaning and the groaning, the guns in the hills and the guns in the bay and breathing death and wading in it up to his backside and the mortar from the burning hills—and all mixed up with a field of burning squealing scurrying rats—and

  SHOOSH-SHOOSH-SHOOSH-SHOOSH-SHOOSH

  “Drop, you crazy fool!” he shouted to Lanky Lincoln. “Take cover! Take cover! Take cover! Goddammit! Take cover! Lanky! Lanky!”

  He jumped out of bed, and where in the hell was he? She came into the room, and he stared at her in his naked confusion, and he had seen her somewhere before sometime in the whole eternity of time, and then he remembered where he was in space and time, and he dove for the sheet to clothe his body.

  She went quickly back out of the room and after a while she called to him from the kitchen. “Get washed up, darling. Your things are on the chair. “I’m making breakfast.”

  At breakfast he said, “That was quite a night. I must’ve made a complete fool of myself. I don’t remember—”

  She said, “You were magnificent! Just beautifully magnificent!”

  He said, “But how did, I mean how did I—?” And he nodded embarrassed toward the bedroom.

  She blushed all over. “Bob—Bob Samuels helped you. He undressed you and put you to bed.”

  He said, “I must’ve really hung one on. I don’t remember.” She said, “You hung a beauty right onto their chins, and they got just what they deserved.”

  He smiled, still very much embarrassed about passing out on the party and especially about her seeing him in his birthday suit with his penis full of urine and standing at attention. He smiled sheepishly and put his hand across the table and took her hand in a brief embrace. His embarrassment was silly, he thought. It wasn’t the first time she had seen his nakedness. Besides, she was a nurse.

  “I was having a bad dream—a terrible dream.”

  She said, “I understand. “I’ve had bad dreams.”

  He said, “Thank you.” He had finished eating and stood up from the table and he felt a queasy something in his stomach and a dizziness, and he leaned against the chair.

  And she said, “What’s the matter, darling?” And came worriedly to him, and he turned from her and hurried toward the bathroom. And in the bathroom he threw up again and she wiped his face and gave him mouthwash and he washed his mouth and gargled his throat, and it was as if it had all been pre-rehearsed. He vaguely remembered. Except she did not kiss him this time, nor did she say, “My poor poor darling.” This time she gave him something to settle his stomach.

  They came back into the living room and she said, “Why don’t you lie down again and get some rest? You’re still quite shaky.”

  He said, “I have caused you enough trouble already.”

  She looked into his nervous face. “You could never cause me trouble. Not like that.” She came and sat beside him and took his hand and looked again into his face. “Don’t you know, Solly? Don’t you know how much you mean to me?”

  He said, “But—”

  She said, “I care for nothing in the world excepting you. Nothing nothing—not a thing.”

  He said, “Celia—”

  She put her hand on his mouth. She said, “Please I Don’t say anything just now. I know how you feel. I remember the emptiness when I lost my Pat.”

  He said, “Celia, I mean—”

  She said, “Hush—please! Don’t say anything just now. Don’t make me cry—not when I feel so happy.”

  He said, “I don’t know how I feel about anything. I just don’t know. I’m dead inside. I thought you knew. You told everybody—I have no romantic inclinations.” He thought about Fannie Mae—he was dead inside and out. He would write to her this very day.

  She said, “I told everybody but myself. I even told myself, but I wouldn’t listen. I’m a fool. A stupid sheila! Maybe I’m just a common prostitute.”

  He shook his angry head. “You’re none of those things and you bloody well know you’re not.” You’re lily white, that’s what you are. If you’re white you’re right. If you’re black get back.

  She laughed. “Listen to him—swearing like a blawsted digger.” She stood up and took his hand. “Come now, lad. You must get yourself some rest. You’re just out of the hospital a week, and I’m your nurse and I’m responsible for your health and welfare.”

  He got up and let her lead him to the bedroom. They stopped at the door and she told him to get undressed and catch a wink. “You’ll have to sleep in the raw. I don’t have any pajamas for you. I’m not used to overnight guests, especially of the male variety.”

  He went inside and she closed the door behind him, and she went and threw herself on the sofa. She thought, he’s in there in my bedroom and he’s undressing and I want him—I should be ashamed of myself—he’s undressing in my bedroom and I want him! She felt alive and warm all over her restless body. She had never felt this way before. With Patrick it had been a thing of serenity. He had been older than she, and he had been husband, lover, father, teacher. He’d been her Rock of Gibraltar, and when he had his arms around her she felt the world could never harm her. His love had been a shelter in a time of storm and stress. But Solly Saunders, slim and nervous, black and beautiful and growing-growing and arrogant and angry, excited every bone in her body. She wanted to take his black and beautiful anger into herself and wanted to know it inside of her and surround it and contain it and nourish it. And she could not weigh the consequences, never weigh the consequences. This was now and here and love and war and everything was fair, they said, and she would know him now and here, if he would have her here and now, she would know him now and here, or she would die forever more. She swallowed the morning air and knew a dark sweet taste in her mouth all the way to her trembling stomach.

  She got up from the couch and she was quaking with excitement. Her breathing came in quick short gasps. She knew her want for him deep deep deep in that throbbing place where the people of the world are born. She tried to calm herself. She went to the bathroom and put cold water on her face. She patted her hair and rearranged her dress. She felt like a virgin and a whore simultaneously, and she wanted to know him now and now and now and here and now and forever now. This time it’s now and now or never. She loved him and she wanted him, and love was its own justification.

  She knocked on his door and knocked again. He said, “Yes?” sleepily.

  She said, “May I come in? Are you undercover?”

  He said, “I’m decent.”

  She came in and sat on the side of the bed. “How do you feel?”

  He said, “Much much better.”

  And she put her hand on his forehead and she tried to keep it steady—keep it steady. She took his hand and felt his pulse. “You seem to be all right.” She couldn’t keep her hand from him. She put her hand on his forehead again and then on his arm, she rubbed his arm tenderly like massaging, and she became self-conscious and drew slightly away from him, and he said, “What’s the matter?”

  She said, “Nothing’s the matter.” I’m just melting with desire, that’s all.

  He said, “Dinkie die?” What the hell was she getting so serious about?

  She said, “Do you like me, Solly?” Her voice, thick and throaty and her damp hand was on his arm again, and she tried to keep from trembling.

  “What kind of a question is that?” he asked her.

  “You don’t hate me because I’m white?”

  “I don’t hate anybody because they’re white. That’s a waste of time and energy undeserved by white folks. I just don’t like the ways of most white folks.”

  “You hate my evil ways?”

  He said angrily, “I don’t hate your ways. But why are you so serious this morning? Have I compromised milady’s honor by getting drunk and spending the night in her bedroom?”

  She said, “Take me in your arms for just one moment and
tell me, ‘I don’t hate you, Celia dear.’”

  He sat up in bed and the covers fell away from his naked shoulders and he took her in his arms and told her, “I do not hate you, Celia dear.”

  She put her arms around his neck and her mouth against his mouth and she murmured, “Love me! Love me! Love me then! Make love with me, for I’m lonely and in need of love!”

  Her face was covered with perspiration, especially in the peach fuzz over her curving mouth which was open now and wanting to receive him. His hand caressed her shoulders and her back and down the middle of her back, and she kissed his eyes his nose his cheeks his ears his neck, and he shook his head and held her slightly away from him.

  He said, “Darling Celia, I’m not ready for love again, I mean, not to be in love again. I’m scared of it. I’m too damn unlucky with it. I don’t know how I feel about you. I don’t know what I feel—” He should go into her arms and escape the whole damn miserable world. Forget it ever happened to him.

  She got up from the bed. “I don’t care—I don’t care. I want you now—to make love to me—of me—with me—but now and now and please, my darling!”

  He stared at her. She said, “I hate you! I hate you! You make me feel like a bloody whore, and I hate you, damn you, hate you! You make me feel all white and ugly and I hate you for it!”

  He took her arm and pulled her to him as she struggled, weakly struggled. He kissed her trembling lips and he caressed her and he whispered, “I want you—I want you now—”

  She said, “No, you don’t! You have no feeling for me, you’re just patronizing me. I don’t want your blawsted kindness! You can bloody well go to hell for all I care—”

  He said, “I want you now—I need you—I’m all alone—”

  She pulled angrily away from him. “Tell me you want me then. Tell me you need me.”

  He said, “I want you and I need you.”

  She took off her clothes as fast as she could, every limb of her was trembling, and she got in bed beside him. And he was man and she was woman and he was big and hard and she was soft and small but pliant and they both were ready more than ready, and she was beneath him, holding all his weight, and she took his hard black fury into her hand and put it between her naked legs where the sweet mystery of life lived and always lived forever lived, and she at last contained his fury, increased his awful angry fury, furious and frenzied, and she lived and and lived and lived and lived, and up and down and up and down and up and down, they lived the maddest sweetest mystery, and faster faster faster faster. Her eyes closed her face losing color and covered with pimples of perspiration, her lips turning white and parted and pleading and moaning and groaning now, and straining every fiber in her body, and, “Oh, my darling, oh my darling, say you love me, say you love me, tell me that you’ll always love me!” She demanded without knowing—hysterically demanded. And he said, “Yes-yes-yes, my dearest! Yes, my darling, yes!”

  They fell asleep weary lovers and they woke up and they fell asleep and she woke up again. They lay naked on top of the bed, and she stared at him from head to foot and marveled at the beauty of his sleeping nakedness. A rosy color had come to her cheeks. She kissed his body and whispered softly, “I love you and I love your body, because it’s beautiful and it smells good and special and it tastes delicious, and I love its varying shades of darkness and light going and coming, here black here brown here black here brown, I love your blessed face, your eyes which remember pain and loneliness and fear and disappointment and love and laughter, your eyes have cried, your eyes have laughed, your dear soft sensitive beautiful intelligent eyes. And your sweet mouth full mouth with the anger and the appetite for living and loving, and I hate the thin slits in the faces which most men have for mouths, and I love the lean nervous honest anger that your body talks about, and your profound compassion, and then I love I love I love I love your big bold dignified penis which is the blackest part about you and it gave me more love and more pleasure than I ever knew existed.” He stirred restlessly still asleep, and her soliloquy had exhausted her and she was short of breath. “I love your mind in all its angry boldness, and I hope the anger never cools. I love the dark deep passion of your anger. Live it! Live it! Don’t subdue it! I love and hate the way you make me feel the deep deep guilty feelings of being what the world calls white, but which your aborigines called more appropriately paleface—every time you look at me or even when I think of you—the painful shame for my race, which has lynched the races of the world. Can you forgive me for being white? Can you forget it? Can you ever really love me, darling? Am I living with illusion?”

  He woke up and rubbed his eyes and stared at her and then remembered.

  “Tell me, can you ever love me?” She didn’t know he had awakened.

  He said sleepily, “Promise me one thing.”

  She moved up against him and put her arms around his neck. “I’ll promise you anything at all.”

  He said, “Promise you will not mention love again.”

  “I promise, Solly.”

  They got up and bathed and dressed and they had tea, and as they sat there eating, she said, “You hate me because I’m white, and I don’t blame you, but it isn’t fair—it just isn’t fair!”

  He looked at her with a painful smile. “First of all it isn’t fair to say that I hate you, because it simply isn’t true. But even so and furthermore, fairness is a thing no white has a right to ask of colored. I mean, look—who’s been unfair to whom? Who’s been unfair to my mother and her mother and my father and his father and who’ll be unfair to my son and his children? ‘Fairness’ is a word that should choke in the white man’s throat. I’m not asking any white man to be fair with Solly Saunders, baby. I live with no such false illusions.”

  She reached across the table, put her hand in his, and she said, “Solly, I—”

  But he shook his head in anger. “Oh no, baby. ‘Fair’ is one of the most nothing words in Webster’s dictionary, you better believe it. It is of no consequence whatever. It’s a fool’s paradise inhabited by idiots and dreamers.”

  “But I know you do hate me,” she said. “I can feel the hatred. I felt it even as you loved me.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, it isn’t true—it isn’t true. How can I say you hate me when I know it isn’t true?”

  He said, “Dear Celia, I not only like you but I deeply deeply regard you. You are a warm sensitive beautiful human being, every last bit of you. And in another time we might have been Romeo and Juliet, for all I know, but we are in this time and here and now, and I am freshly out of being in love, so please don’t look for love from me, because I care for you much too much to pretend. Let’s just take what we have and let it do for the time being.” His voice hardened. “And if we can’t, let’s break it off and here and now. I mean, forget it!”

  She stared at him, her eyes filling up. His mood was always always changing.

  He said, “And you have the cutest mustache. That’s another thing about you.”

  She said, “You don’t like my mustache.” She was serious.

  He laughed. “I adore your handsome mustache.” You’re not Fannie Mae. Let’s face it. And you’re white—let’s face that too. And maybe I do hate you.

  She smiled. “Then I shan’t ever shave it. And maybe one day you’ll learn to love me, as much as you love my handsome mustache.”

  He said wearily, “You promised—”

  “I’ll never mention love again,” she said, “until you mention love again.”

  She put her hand across the table and he took it in his hand this time. And he said, “Dinkie die?” It was a tender moment.

  And she smiled and said, “Fair dinkum.”

  The next week he went all over the town by himself, he rode the trams, he rode the trains, he rode the buses. To the beaches, to the parks, to the outskirts of town, to the business district, to the quays. Several places there were the Yankee MPs who reminded him of the cops in Georgia. They told him the places
were off limits even though he plainly saw white Yankee GIs already inside and could hear their boisterous laughter. He argued quietly with the MPs with their brave guns and courageous nightsticks. He argued even though he knew he argued vainly. He was so angry he thought his head might pop wide open. “All right, you looking for trouble, boy? Move along before we run you in.”

  He usually went where he hoped he would not run into Americans, and it was South Bainbridge and North Bainbridge and all around Banana City, and he liked the friendly Australian people with their warm and rugged manner and their idiom and accents.

  He didn’t see or hear from Celia for three days, and the evening of the third day she phoned him and asked him, “How about taking a walk with me?”

  He said, “Sure—I’d love to.” He was almost dead from walking and his dogs were barking, fiercely barking.