Darby

by Jonathon Scott Fuqua

  During school, I imagined my daddy’s car sputtering north, past Laurinburg and up toward North Carolina. I imagined Jerome and his wife and daughter scrunched flat down in the back seat so that no one would see them. I could picture the blue sky, and I saw the sun gleaming on the car’s hood and my daddy talking to the Hawkins family as they went, as mosquito hawks flew up around the windows and bright red songbirds swooped over the fields. It’s such a pretty drive, it didn’t seem like anything bad could happen to anyone between Bennettsville and North Carolina. Then, before lunch, a terrible picture came into my head. The Ku Klux Klan men stopped Daddy’s car. Jumping out, they set off their shotguns into Daddy and the Hawkins family. I nearly screamed out loud.

  Miss Burstin stopped what she was doing and asked me if I was feeling okay.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered her with a catch in my throat.

  “You look pale.”

  “I’m okay, ma’am.”

  At lunch break, I trod slowly down the Murchison School’s steps. As I walked across the pretty front lawn, doodlebugs scurried in the dirt when my feet came down. I went on down the street and arrived at Mr. Salter’s office, where I shoved the door open and stepped in. Then I got out my newspaper notebook, which was already unraveling because I hadn’t made it as good as the first one.

  “Well, hello, Darby,” Mr. Salter called from behind his desk.

  “Hey, Mr. Salter,” I answered.

  He ducked his head to get a better sight of my face. “You okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You got another story for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s exciting,” he declared. Tilting back in his chair, he told me, “Everyone loved the piece about your uncle. I had so many compliments I stopped keeping count. I hope people told you.”

  “People said nice things,” I promised him.

  “It was a great story,” he said. “Readers like what you have to say and the way you say it.”

  “That’s real good, sir,” I said.

  Untilting in his chair, Mr. Salter leaned forward. He wiped an inky hand through his dark hair. “Darby, is something wrong?”

  I said, “No, sir.” I lifted up my newspaper notebook for him. “You think you might wanna put this story in the paper, too?”

  Taking it, he said, “If I didn’t, the whole town would tar and feather me.” Relaxed, he cracked open my notebook and looked over my newest column. It started by saying how surprised I was to hear that black people up North lived in nice neighborhoods and that some owned things like houses and cars. Then I told how I thought it was strange because I’d never seen such a thing. But it was true, and it seemed funny to me that it could be that way somewhere else but not in Marlboro County. To me, it proved that people want nearly the same thing in the world. They want to own nice stuff and live in a nice way. I also said it was sad how the oldest black men have to take their hats off when they talk to white folks, no matter how young, which doesn’t make any sense and must be awfully embarrassing on top of that.

  I wrote how things should be done more evenly, and that everybody ought to get respect for being friendly instead of being white or black. I finished the newspaper column by saying that nobody wants to live knowing that things won’t ever be nice, and I hoped that one day a black tenant farmer would roar through town in the prettiest Cadillac ever, and maybe if a white man needed a ride home, he’d give him one.

  When Mr. Salter was finished, his throat made a funny clicking sound. With his mouth flat and bothered-looking, he said, “This is very different from the other two. It’s got its flaws and all, but . . . it’s good. It’s just inflammatory. You know what that means?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It means it’s rabble-rousing, that it could cause some folks to react in an angry fashion, which is, in some cases, perfect. There’s a whole school of journalism that’s devoted to stirring up trouble. It’s called muckraking, and it’s helped change a lot of people’s feelings about issues. The thing is . . . Marlboro County is already jumpy and unstable because of what happened out at Turpin Dunn’s place. We got some folks who feel a crime was committed, and others that don’t see anything wrong, and they’re at each other’s throats.” Mr. Salter toppled his head back and looked straight at the ceiling like it might give him an idea. “See what I mean?”

  Disappointed, I asked, “You’re worried about your windows getting broken?”

  “My windows, my business, and my family. If I print something like this, some people might say I got strange political leanings or that I’m not patriotic or something. I don’t know. It could cause me some real trouble.”

  Mr. Salter’s body sagged. “Darby, sweetie, your writing is a gift. I hope you recognize that. You’re gonna have a lot of years to hash out these sorts of issues. You’re good. I promise. But I can’t run this type of story. I just can’t.”

  I looked away. My heart was pounding in my chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  But that didn’t make me feel better. It didn’t make sense. Why couldn’t he put a small column about blacks in his paper without worrying? It was no wonder I hadn’t ever heard of black people owning houses and cars. Nobody could write anything good about them. “Can . . . can I have my notebook back?”

  Mr. Salter weighed it in his hands, then put it on his desk. He put up a finger and reached into a drawer. Rummaging around, he found three professional notepads, which he gave me.

  Holding them, so perfect and clean, I wanted to smile but I couldn’t.

  He said, “I’m giving you those so that you’ll keep writing. Okay? You should. You got a good conscience and a kind personality. I don’t want the fact that I’m not taking this story to discourage you.”

  Flipping through the blank pages, I said flatly, “These even got lines to write on.”

  “Yeah, they do.”

  “They’re nice.”

  Lifting my head, I asked again, “Mr. Salter, since you don’t want it, can I also have my story back?”

  “Oh, yeah, Darby. Sure.” He laughed. “It’s . . . it’s just that I don’t wanna let it go. It’s good. I mean, I kind of see this as a lesson in humanity from the mouth of a child.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  He chuckled and told me, “I’m just spouting third-rate philosophy.”

  Confused, I said, “So can I have it back, sir?”

  Taking a deep breath, he handed me my story. “Write something else,” he said. “You write some more. People like your column.”

  “I’m gonna write something, maybe tonight.”

  Mr. Salter took his hands and massaged his face. “Now, Darby, I’m as guilty as everyone else.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Salter?” I asked, but I sort of understood.

  Balling up a fist, he thumped it on his desk. “Never mind.”

  That afternoon, I searched out the school windows so that I might spot my daddy’s Buick go by on the street. There are about ten different routes into town, though, so I knew he could come back another way. Still, I had to look. Even during our spelling test, I watched the road and couldn’t concentrate. I knew I was misspelling nearly every word, but I couldn’t help it.

  Miss Burstin came over and kneeled beside my chair. “Darby, are you feeling okay?” she whispered.

  “Almost, ma’am,” I told her.

  “You look out of sorts, child, and you skipped lunch earlier.”

  Swallowing, I told her, “I went to see Mr. Salter about a new story, is why I didn’t eat.”

  She nodded. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you enjoy writing, but a growing girl needs nourishment.”

  “I guess,” I said, suddenly starving. “He didn’t want it anyway,” I told her. After saying that, I nearly started to cry. My stomach felt knotted up like a croaker sack.

  Miss Burstin gave me a hug. She said, “Sweetheart, if you’re going to make a career of writing, you’re going
to have to get used to rejection. But it hurts. It stings.”

  I pointed at the test paper in front of me. “For some reason, I can’t think.”

  She nodded. “Why don’t you retake the test tomorrow. How about that?”

  I answered, “Thank you, Miss Burstin. That’d be better.”

  “Good,” she whispered, and stood. Walking up to her desk, she fetched something from a drawer and came back and put five saltines beside my paper. Clapping her hands, she called out, “Five minutes! Don’t forget, i before e except after c. It’s a rule.”

  At the end of the school day, I said goodbye to Beth, who begged me to go home with her. When I told her I couldn’t, she said, “Please, please, please!” But I lied and said that my daddy had given me an instruction, and I couldn’t get out of it. So I wandered up the street to the Carmichael Block. Off in the distance, a barrier of clouds looked like giant bales of unwashed cotton. They seemed stacked up toward the top of the sky, heavy and solid with dirty white tops and undersides. For some reason, they made the sunlight extra yellow.

  Anxious, I went slowly down Main Street. When I got to Carmichael Dry Goods, I waited and waited till I got up my nerve. Then I turned and pushed through the front door.

  Daddy was there, talking to Mr. Salter and leaning against the counter.

  “Hey, Daddy! I can’t believe you got back already!”

  “Hey, Darby. Yeah, I did. I returned a while ago.”

  Mr. Salter said, “Hello there, Darby.”

  Relieved that my daddy was back, I didn’t feel so bad about my story. I said, “Hello, sir.”

  “You look happy,” Daddy said.

  I told him, “I’m just glad about stuff, is all.” I wanted so bad for him to pick me up like I was a little kid, but I knew he wouldn’t. Slipping my books alongside his elbow, I patted one of his hands.

  Mr. Salter said, “Darby, you know what me and your daddy were discussing?”

  “What, sir?”

  “Your daddy and I have been talking about your new story. Matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. He thought you’d be going home with Beth, but I guess he was wrong, which is fortunate for me because I’d like to show him your article. Do you mind? What I told him is, if he approves, I’m gonna run it tomorrow.”

  I stared at him for a second. “Really?” I shouted.

  “Yes, Darby, if he approves.”

  “Do you, Daddy?” I asked.

  “First I have to read it.”

  Diving for my books, I pulled out my newspaper notebook and gave it to him. “It’s the first thing,” I said.

  Flipping it open, Daddy looked at me, cleared his throat, and read. Scowling the entire way, he didn’t seem to like it much.

  When he was done, I stared at him.

  Daddy scratched his chin. Placing my story on the counter, he took a long draw of wind, and said, “I like it. It’s strong and thoughtful, especially for a nine-year-old. The thing is, I was hoping we wouldn’t have to think more about this sort of thing for a while. Big Darby absolutely hates the way Marlboro County seems so rancorous and divided these days.” He flicked a wad of dust off the side of the cash register.

  Mr. Salter said, “Sherman, that’s why I wanted you to see it.”

  Daddy said, “In a way, I wish you’d run it without asking me. I suppose I’m as chicken as the next guy.”

  My mouth flopped open. “You are not, Daddy.”

  Daddy glanced at Mr. Salter, then down at me. “Heck, Darby, if this got run, it would upset your mama something awful, that’s for sure. She’d be real upset. Not that she sides with the Klan, she just hates things being stirred up.” He scratched his chin again and considered. “Funny, I wish it wasn’t so, but as it stands, my best judgment says this should be in the paper. It’s a real eye opener when a child sees things more clearly than adults. It really is.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Mr. Salter told him.

  “Go on and run it,” Daddy instructed.

  “You’re sure, Sherman?”

  Daddy thought for a second more. “I am,” he stated.

  Jumping into the air, I shouted, “This is the best day of my whole life!”

  Mr. Salter smiled. He said, “She’s a little muckraker, Sherman. You better watch yourself.”

  Daddy laughed. “Heck, I can handle it. I’m used to it. Both my kids are attracted to trouble.”

  Not so long after that, when Mr. Salter was gone and my daddy was waiting on a customer, I heard a familiar sound outside. Tiny hooves clip-clopped on the sidewalk. Happy and daring, I went to the door and looked out to see Chester roll past with Mercury pulling him in the goat cart. Yanking the door open, I stepped outside, and called, “Chester.” He kept rolling. “Chester!” I shouted, and everyone around looked at me.

  He stopped.

  I caught up and put my hand on Mercury’s nose. I said, “Chester?”

  “Yeah?” he answered shyly.

  “Chester, I wanna ride with Mercury sometimes. Like before.”

  He nodded.

  Brave from happiness, I said, “I know you got a crush on me, but I don’t mind. I just wanna ride. I don’t mind that you got a crush.”

  Peeking up at me, he said, “You don’t?”

  “It’s sorta nice,” I said.

  “You . . . think?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Then, glancing all around to see if anyone was looking, I stepped close and gave him a quick hug. I don’t even know why I did it. Mama would have killed me forever if she heard about it. “See. We’re friends. It doesn’t matter about that other stuff.”

  Smiling and red, Chester stuttered, “You . . . you wanna ride right now?”

  “I gotta go help my daddy. Maybe I can ride tomorrow?”

  He said. “I . . . sorta missed not talking to you.”

  “Same here,” I said back, smiling.

  That was the night of the storm, when all the farmers in Marlboro County lost at least one shed and Crooked Creek rose up and flooded the Gulf, where most of the black-owned shops in Bennettsville are built. It was the night a bunch of tornadoes twisted across the fields, and a farmer named Mr. MacKnight thought he’d lost all of his mules in a barn near Tatum. It was the night that a gigantic tree fell on one of the best homes in town and about ten tenant houses crumbled in. It was an awful, awful storm, and Daddy and me drove home just as it was kicking up.

  Watching the thunderhead clouds climbing higher and higher into the sky, all the shopkeepers, including Daddy, closed their stores early. Nervous, me and Daddy got into the Buick and clanked across town toward Ellan. Just about halfway home, the wind started gusting. Then sheets and sheets of rain drummed the ground so that you could hardly see. Daddy drove as fast as he could, but branches were cartwheeling into the roadway, making him weave like a chased chicken. Out on the open highway, as we raced between fields of cotton, it was nearly as pitch-dark as midnight. Then lightning began crackling and combing the fields and trees, giving everything a gleaming whiteness. After ten minutes, we turned onto Ellan’s drive and banged down the muddy path to the back of the house. The car barn’s doors were swinging wildly back and forth, but Daddy didn’t even slow. He drove right in between them just as one caught in a gust, crashing closed behind us.

  “I got to get the doors locked before they blow off,” Daddy called to me, and I got out and we struggled and wrastled the one closed while the rain stung our cheeks. Then, in a hail of blowing camellia blooms and hard-as-stone pecans, we ran toward the house. At the back door, Daddy shoved me inside, and called, “I need to go check the cows.” Then his big body disappeared into the gray, sideways rain.

  Rushing upstairs, I heard someone screaming and crying, and in the kitchen I found Mama holding tight to Aunt Greer, whose eyes were as big as bottle tops. Over my aunt’s howls, Mama yelled for me to help McCall and Annie Jane shut the upstairs windows.

  I raced into the hallway and jumped up the steps. Halfway to the top, something crashed in the
parlor, bringing me to a stop. Confused, I turned and skittered back down the stairs. I was near the bottom when the lights shut off, and in the sudden darkness, I missed a step and found myself rolling and bouncing into the foyer. Getting up, I chased into the parlor, where I could see that the window was poked through with a busted tree limb.

  As the curtains blew as crazy as a ghost, the rain swished in and was getting everything wet. Scared, I gathered in the slippery-as-an-eel drapes and tried to keep the rain from soaking the floor. On the roadway out front, lightning fireballs sizzled. Thunder shook Ellan. A few minutes passed that way, and McCall and Annie Jane came rushing down the steps. Together, we gathered the twisty, fluttering drapes and pushed the limb out the window.

  “Where’s Daddy?” McCall shouted in my ear.

  “He’s gone out to the dairy barn,” I yelled back.

  “Lawd, Lawd, Lawd,” Annie Jane was saying.

  The storm licked and growled over the top of us, but we blocked the rain good, even when it turned to hail. Pushing hard, we held the heavy curtains flat against the wall. Then the wind gave out the nastiest of gusts and snapped the thick curtain rod, sending the drapes spinning and flopping down on top of Annie Jane’s head. Stumbling and bleeding a little, she grabbed up a blanket and helped us hold that into place.

  Shortly, Daddy was alongside us and taking over. He directed Annie Jane to sit, and we watched her fall into a chair. By himself, Daddy held that blanket in place, so that I was all the sudden so tired I began to shiver. Stumbling backward on the slick floor, one of my arms began to throb something awful. It went bonk, bonk, bonk, and my eyes watered. Then my teeth started clicking, and that click-click-click sound filled my ears.

  The storm lasted only about an hour, but when it was over the air was thin and freezing cold so that you could see steam when you breathed. Then the prettiest thing happened. Way on the horizon, the clouds scattered like the shreds of Evette’s dresses, and the last rays of daylight shot into the house. Like a hot dot in the cold air, the top part of the yellow sun fell into the bare trees. I held my achy arm and began to cry.