by Wiley Cash
It felt as if the ceiling had come down around Hampton and the sky on top of it. Gerald said something else, but Hampton either could not hear him or his mind was panicked, unable to register the words he heard. He turned his head one way and then the other, hoping that one of his ears could pick up the sounds and understand what they meant, but neither ear seemed to be working.
“What?” Hampton asked. The words crossed his lips like a whisper. He considered placing his hand over his heart to keep it inside his chest.
Gerald looked from Hampton to the windows on the other side of the car. He lowered his head as if searching for a specific face out on the dark platform.
“White men,” Gerald said, looking from the window back to Hampton, “out there. They told me to get you off the train.”
Hampton looked out the window beside him. He didn’t see anyone, but he was afraid of standing and trying to get a better look. He remembered the two policemen who took his father off a train not much different than this one. “Is it the police?”
“No,” Gerald said, and in that answer Hampton understood that perhaps a fate worse than his father’s awaited him.
“What do they want?” Hampton asked.
“I don’t know,” Gerald said. The man’s forehead glistened. He was nervous, perhaps just as scared as Hampton. “I don’t want any trouble, Hamp.”
A few people sitting close to Hampton seemed to understand what was happening. They turned their faces away from Hampton as if not witnessing what could happen would keep it from happening.
“What do they want, Gerry?” he asked. “Please, ask them. Please.”
Gerald looked to the window again, nodded his head, left the car.
Hampton sat and watched him go. His mind ran through the possibilities of who could be asking for him out on the platform. Had the Loray Mill sent men to Salisbury to pull him off the train? Had they heard that it was Sophia, a white woman, who’d invited him down?
And then he remembered the white girl on the train from D.C. just a few weeks ago: What was her name? Donna. She was from Salisbury. There’d been a man with her that night in the dining car. Perhaps it had been her father. Perhaps she’d told her father about him. Even then, even before he’d spoken to her, something had told Hampton that it would be stupid and careless of him to do so, to think for one moment that she’d want him to talk to her. He’d even told her his name. She must have told someone back home that Hampton had harassed her, been inappropriate, too familiar. He should have remembered that this wasn’t Harlem, where a girl like Sophia could speak to you on the street, invite you to meetings, address you by your first name, call you brother. This was the South, after all, where buckshot blew through doors and lives were abandoned in the night and lost forever.
Gerald walked back into the colored car. Hampton saw that his face hadn’t changed. Everyone in the car watched him, waited. They all leaned closer when he spoke.
“They say they know you,” Gerald said. “They want you to get off the train, or they’re coming on.” The train had already been at the station for a few minutes. Hampton knew the platform was emptying. The train would leave soon. Would they really come aboard after him?
“Who are they?” Hampton asked.
“I don’t know,” Gerald said. “They said they know you. Said some girl sent them.”
Terror closed around Hampton’s heart like a fist.
“Who?” he asked. “What girl? I don’t know any girls down here.”
“Sophia,” Gerald said. “They say you know some girl named Sophia.”
The fist around his heart loosened its grip. Hampton found himself cupping his hands around the glass, peering out onto the darkened platform. A cluster of bodies waited beneath one of the lamps at the far end. A man turned toward the train as if looking for something, pushed the hair away from his eyes.
It was Fred Beal.
Hampton pulled his duffel bag free of the overhead compartment and exited the train just as the whistle blew and steam rolled down the platform. Beal and a man Hampton had never seen before remained at the far end of the platform, beneath one of the lights. Beal looked up and saw Hampton. His face registered a moment of recognition. He nodded, said something to the man standing with him. They both turned, and Hampton watched as they walked into the station. Hampton put on his hat and hurried to catch them.
The empty station hummed with silence. Hampton scanned the brightly lit room, but didn’t see them. He walked to a window and looked out into the night. The two men walked across the parking lot. Hampton opened the door and stepped outside, called Beal’s name. The other man stopped walking, looked back at Hampton where he stood just outside the station’s door. Beal continued on toward a Model A coupe that waited in the shadows on the far side of the gravel lot.
Hampton called Beal’s name again, and then he threw the strap on his duffel over his shoulder and ran down the stairs. He wondered if Beal planned to leave him behind here in Salisbury. He didn’t know what to think.
The man Hampton didn’t know stopped at the driver’s side and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. Beal faced Hampton as he grew closer to the automobile.
“Beal,” Hampton said.
Beal looked around as if trying to decide whether anyone else had heard his name, whether anyone else had seen the three men in the parking lot together. He looked back at Hampton.
“What the hell?” Hampton said.
“Stop it!” Beal said. His voice was a hoarse whisper.
Hampton froze in midstride. He stared at Beal.
“Goddammit, Haywood,” Beal said, “stop screaming my name.”
Hampton was unsure of what to do next. His duffel bag slipped from his shoulder and landed in the gravel. He did not move to pick it up. Beal looked down at the bag where it had fallen, then he looked at Hampton. He rolled his eyes.
“Well, come on,” he said. He motioned for Hampton to move quickly. “Come on, come on,” he said again. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”
Hampton picked up his duffel, slung the strap over his shoulder, and started toward the car. The man opened the driver’s-side door and climbed inside. As Hampton approached, Beal unfastened the compartment that housed the Model A’s rumble seat. He reached out his hand toward Hampton. At first, Hampton thought Beal had done it in greeting, but then he realized Beal was reaching for his luggage. Hampton handed the duffel to Beal. Beal tossed it into the darkness at the bottom of the rumble seat.
“Climb in,” Beal said. “All the way in. We need to get out of here.”
Although the gravel parking lot had been dark, the rumble seat’s interior was what Hampton expected to find at the bottom of the grave. It was hot, nearly stifling. He could smell the automobile’s exhaust, its burned oil, hear its creaking and rocking as they careened down the road.
Hampton drifted into sleep. Something in his mind screamed at him to stay awake. He panicked at the thought that he could run out of air or succumb to the car’s fumes. The panic was fleeting, and soon the blackness into which he stared dematerialized. He settled into a dream in which he was still sitting on the No. 33 train as it barreled south toward Charlotte.
He did not know how long he’d been sleeping when he felt the car slow and roll to a halt. Beal’s muffled voice, and then the stranger’s, came from inside. A door opened and closed, and then another. He heard footsteps in the gravel, then the sound of water.
He arched his back until it touched the lid of the rumble seat. He pushed against it. It didn’t move. He pushed again, harder this time. Again. He felt the car rock on its axles. Another push and he heard a click as the latch released itself. Hampton unfolded his body from the compartment. The first thing he noticed was the intense smell of the air: manure, hay, a fire burning somewhere far off in the warm night. The car sat parked along a dirt road on the edge of a pasture. Nearby, a cluster of milk cows grazed silently on the other side of a low fence, their tails swishing in the shadows. Hampton turned, lo
oked behind him, saw Beal and the other man urinating on the side of the road with their backs to him.
Hampton climbed out of the rumble seat and walked to the edge of the road and unzipped his fly. He stood there, wetting the dark ground at his feet. He stared at the cows. A few of them raised their heads and considered him; then they looked back down at the earth and continued tearing at the grass.
When he finished he turned and saw that Beal and the man now leaned against the driver’s side of the car. Both men stared at him. Beal had his arms folded over his chest, his ankles crossed before him. The other man lit a cigarette.
“This is a bad idea,” Beal said.
“What’s a bad idea?” Hampton asked. “Stopping out here? Taking a piss on the side of the road? Or are you talking about squeezing me into a rumble seat? Shit, Beal, I could’ve suffocated.”
“No,” Beal said. “I’m not talking about that.” He spread his arms, and turned his body as if to take in the entire scene around him. “I’m talking about this,” he said. “All of it, especially you. You coming down here was a bad idea. It changes everything.”
“Yeah, well maybe you need my help.”
“I don’t,” Beal said.
“The party thinks you do,” Hampton said.
“This is the South, Haywood,” Beal said. “This isn’t New York City. You don’t know the South, not like I do.”
But the darkened field that surrounded them made Hampton disagree with Beal, as did the humid air and the smells of animals and turned earth. The terror that had lived in his heart since that Mississippi night back in 1906 burst free and he threw himself at Beal, crossing the ground between them in just a few strides. He threw a right hook and caught Beal on the jaw. Hampton staggered with his own momentum and struggled to regain his footing in the damp grass. Beal covered his face and crumpled against the side of the automobile; then he sprung at Hampton, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him to the ground. They rolled through the grass. Hampton heard Beal cussing, heard himself screaming, “Don’t tell me what I know, you son of a bitch! Don’t tell me what I know!” They stopped rolling. Hampton found himself on top of Beal, straddling his body. Beal covered his face, and just as Hampton raised his fist to strike him, he heard a gunshot. The cows flushed at the noise, galloped into the darkness, and disappeared. Hampton turned, his fist still clenched and held above his head. The stranger pointed a small revolver at him. The man cocked the hammer.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said.
Hampton lowered his arm, unclenched his fist, felt Beal’s chest heaving beneath him. He climbed off Beal and sat on the ground beside him. Beal propped himself up with his elbows. On the other side of the field, a light winked on at a small, white farmhouse. Beal and Hampton both saw it. They got to their feet. The man kept the revolver on Hampton. A dog began barking somewhere out in the dark near the farmhouse. The man looked behind him, saw the light, looked back at Hampton.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said again.
“Who are you?” Hampton asked.
“This is Carlton Reed,” Beal said. “And Carlton Reed should’ve shot you.”
“No one needs to get shot, Fred,” Reed said. “But, Haywood, he’s right about one thing: your coming down here is a bad idea. Punching a white man in the South is an even worse idea. We’re on the same side, and we’re your brothers in the struggle. You should trust us, because if we weren’t we’d be looking for a place to bury you.”
It was well past midnight now, the streets deep with shadows and the shapes of rickety houses leaning away from one another at wild angles. Hampton climbed down from the rumble seat. Reed had killed the engine, but he still sat behind the wheel, smoking. The motor popped and hissed. Beal, his hands in his pockets, stood beside Hampton. Beal turned, looked up the street behind him as if expecting someone to appear. He stared for a moment, consulted his wristwatch. Beal nodded south where a dull light hovered in the sky. “That’s Loray,” he said.
Hampton stared at the light, then his eyes took in the houses around him, most of them small, a few of them two stories or more. Beal nodded toward a house several doors down the street. It was three stories high with gables along the roof.
“You’ll be staying there,” Beal said. “Miss Adeline takes Negroes in the attic rooms. She thinks you’re visiting family. Don’t give her a reason to think any different. Use the back staircase. Use the back door. Don’t go in the common areas. Don’t talk to the white boarders. Don’t look at white women.” He sighed, lit a cigarette. “Welcome to Gastonia.”
Something over Beal’s shoulder caught Hampton’s eye. A figure made its way down the street toward them. Beal turned and watched it too. As it came closer Hampton saw that it was a woman. It was Sophia. She waved. Hampton could see that she was smiling.
“Late, as usual,” Beal said.
“Fancy seeing you here, city boy,” she said when she was close enough to be heard. Her voice was bright and clear. Hampton almost smiled for the relief of seeing someone who cared about him, but the events of the night weighed too heavily on him, and now that he was free of the rumble seat, he was aware of the aches in his body. The left side of his face throbbed too, and he wondered if Beal had hit him, although he had no memory of it.
“Your package has arrived,” Beal said.
Sophia stopped and stood before Hampton and Beal. She reached out, touched Hampton’s shoulder, which seemed the only manner of greeting she was comfortable expressing. He kept his arms by his sides, his duffel bag at his feet.
“How was your trip?” she asked.
“I’m here,” Hampton said. He kept his voice cool, flat. “I survived.”
“We already gave him the speech,” Reed said from the driver’s seat.
Sophia looked toward the car as if she just realized someone had been sitting inside it.
“What speech was that?” she asked.
“The ‘don’t get lynched’ speech,” Reed said. He cranked the engine. He leaned forward, looked out the passenger’s window where Beal stood. “It was a good speech, wasn’t it, Fred?”
“It was,” Beal said. He opened the car door and put one foot inside, but then he stopped. “This is serious, Sophia,” he said. “I’d hoped we trusted one another more than this.”
“This has nothing to do with trust,” Sophia said. “It’s about taking action.”
Beal looked from her to Hampton.
“Whether or not we need action,” he said, “it’s what we’re going to get. You’ve both made sure of that.” He climbed inside the car and closed the door. The automobile rattled off down the dark street and turned left at the corner. Sophia watched until it disappeared.
“Cowards,” she said. She looked at Hampton, who stared back at her. She lifted her hand, touched his shirt collar. He felt it lift away from his neck. She let it go, and it flopped back into place. “Why is your shirt torn?” She stepped away from him as if appraising him. She must have noticed the grass stains on his pants, the sodden knees where he had kneeled over Beal in the mud. “What happened?”
“What happened?” Hampton asked. “When? When I was yanked off the train in Salisbury? When I was suffocating in the rumble seat? Or are you asking about when Reed pulled a gun on me?”
“Reed pulled a gun on you?” Sophia asked. “Why?”
“It’s a long story. It’s all been one long story.”
“I wanted to meet you in Charlotte,” Sophia said. “But they found out, and once they found out, it wasn’t safe.”
“Who found out?” Hampton asked. “Beal?”
“Yes, Fred, Reed, everyone. Probably Loray too.”
“How’d they find out, Sophia? This was supposed to be quiet.”
“And I tried to keep it quiet,” she said. “I did. But this place is a hornet’s nest, Hampton. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s loud and busy, and sometimes you can’t hear over the noise and you can’t find your friends, and if you shout you don’t know who’s
listening.”
“Well, no more shouting, then,” Hampton said.
“We won’t have to,” she said. “You’re here.”
She looked down the street at the house with the gables. Hampton turned and looked at it as well. Faint light burned in a few of the windows.
“That’s your boardinghouse,” Sophia said. “Miss Adeline takes Negroes.”
“I know,” Hampton said. “Use the back door and the back staircase. I’m here visiting family. Don’t talk to white folks. Don’t look at white girls.”
“Very impressive,” Sophia said, trying to smile.
“You can take the boy out of Mississippi.”
“There are so many people I want you to meet,” she said. “I told you about Ella May, but there are so many wonderful people here.”
“I hope they’re all just as wonderful as Beal and Reed,” Hampton said.
“I’m sorry,” Sophia said. “I didn’t know that any of that was going to happen. But you made it, and we’ll start organizing tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at eight a.m. and we’ll head to Bessemer City and meet up with Ella. She’s got a list of workers to visit.”
“Eight a.m.,” said Hampton. He had no idea what time it was, but 8 a.m. did not seem very far away.
“Get some sleep,” Sophia said. She turned and walked up the street in the direction from which she’d come. Hampton bent to pick up his duffel and then he heard Sophia call his name. He looked up, saw her a block away, a shadowy figure on the sidewalk.
“Spindle,” she said.
Hampton stood, threw the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, looked in the direction of the boardinghouse, looked back at Sophia. “Spindle,” he said.
The next morning, Hampton found himself the lone passenger in a rickety truck en route to a town called Bessemer City with Sophia at the wheel. He’d slept poorly in his hot attic room, opening his eyes at every sound: each pop or crack of the house during the night, the rumble of every passing automobile, and, at dawn when workers left their shift at Loray and headed home, the cacophony of footsteps and voices on the street three floors below.