The Last Ballad

by Wiley Cash

  “Are you qualified for that kind of work?” she asked. Albert was drunk, but not too drunk to know that most women would blush under that kind of talk; yet this girl didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

  “More qualified than you could ever imagine,” Tom said.

  The woman slid off Tom’s lap and took his hand and pulled him to his feet. She turned to the couple at the table behind her.

  “Y’all need anything right now?”

  The man didn’t look up, but the woman with him whispered something that must have meant no. Albert watched as Tom followed the woman into the kitchen. He listened as their feet moved across the floor. Then he heard something else: the rhythmic sound of someone chopping wood outside.

  He filled his glass again, knocked it back. He fished a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lit it. He smoked, tapped his ashes into the plate of peanuts. It was nice to be drunk like this, so much of the night still left. He wanted to talk to someone about something, anything.

  He resolved that when Tom came back, he’d tell him what was on his mind. He’d tell him that he’d been feeling blue about not ever doing anything great with his life. Sure, Tom may have drunk and whored his way across France the same way he’d done it across Gaston County, but at least he could say he’d been to war, and by God, that meant something. Albert wanted to do something great, wanted to believe that greatness awaited him, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be or where he would find it.

  But he was a patriot. He knew that for certain. He would have gone to war if he could have afforded it, but his father had needed him on the farm and his mother had been sick and his older brother had gone to the war and died somewhere in Europe and no one had wanted him to go after that. Still, he loved his country, was willing to die for it if necessary. He had always been willing to stomp out communism, totalitarianism, and fascism if anyone would have given him the chance.

  And then this strike at Loray came along and he thought his prayers had been answered. He would prove the gallantry on the streets of Gastonia that he hadn’t had the opportunity to prove in the trenches of Europe. If he couldn’t fight communism abroad he might as well fight it at home. The enemy was the enemy no matter how far you had to travel to meet him.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when Tom came barreling back into the room from the kitchen, hitching his pants up around his waist. He was smiling.

  “Roach,” he said, “you ain’t going to believe what she just told me.” He gestured toward the back of the house.

  “Come on,” he said, “we got to talk to this nigger.”

  He walked toward the kitchen, and then he stopped and looked back at Albert, who hadn’t moved at all.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Albert reached for the jug, but it was empty. He stood from the table, and the ceiling rushed toward him too quickly and the floor fell away from him and the chair in which he’d just been sitting seemed very small and very far from where he stood. He put his hands on the table and sidestepped around it and then he followed Tom into the kitchen and toward a door on the back wall. Tom opened the door and Albert discovered that it had grown dark outside. He’d lost track of time.

  A light beyond the kitchen caught his attention, so he turned to his right and saw a doorway to another room. The door was nearly closed, but the crack it left was large enough to spy a nude woman lying on a bare mattress on the floor. Tom took hold of Albert’s arm and pulled him outside. He was already walking through the yard before he realized that the naked woman he’d just seen was the same woman he’d seen earlier.

  A greasy, smoky lamp burned out in the dark yard behind the house. The little bit of yellow light it gave off illuminated the body of a colored man surrounded by cords of firewood. He hadn’t halted in his work when they’d come outside, and now he finished off two more pieces as Tom and Albert made their way toward him across the night-damp grass. Crickets and frogs called from the dark.

  Tom was the first to speak.

  “You James?” he asked.

  The colored man froze in mid-swing, left the axe hanging just above his head. He remained there for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to turn to see who’d spoken his name. He lowered the axe and looked at Tom and Albert.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m James.”

  He rested the axe on a stump and crossed his hands over the end of the handle. He stood there, breathing heavy, like he was proud. There was nothing Albert hated more than a proud nigger, especially when you had questions for him. The man who stood there sweating and breathing heavily before them could have been thirty or fifty. It was hard for Albert to tell with niggers. He’d slapped one in the face a few months ago for not getting off the sidewalk when a lady passed, and the chief had dressed him down for it. It turned out that he’d slapped a twelve-year-old boy, but Albert could have sworn he’d slapped a man.

  Although Albert couldn’t see Tom’s eyes, he knew Tom was probably staring at the axe just as Albert was staring at it. James must have felt their eyes resting on the axe because he lowered it to the ground and gave it a little toss so that it would remain out of his reach. He stared at the ground just in front of the places where Tom and Albert stood.

  “Your lady inside here said you know something about a nigger and two white girls who’ve been coming around,” Tom said. “She said they came talking about the union.”

  “Yes, sir,” James said. “I might’ve heard something about it.”

  “About the union or the nigger and the two girls?”

  “About both, sir.”

  “About both?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, sir, about both.”

  “Well, what did you think about it?” Tom asked.

  “About what, sir?”

  “About the union.”

  “I don’t got no need for it,” James said. “They take good care of me here. Ain’t no need to join no union just to cut firewood and make whiskey.”

  “I’d say,” Tom said. He laughed, looked over at Albert. Although James did not raise his eyes from their feet, he allowed himself a brief smile.

  “What the hell you laughing at?” Albert asked. The words shot from his chest but got caught up in his mouth. He seemed to have spoken a little more slowly than he’d intended.

  “I ain’t laughing, sir,” James said. “Ain’t nothing funny.”

  “Why you smiling then?”

  “I didn’t mean to, sir. It’s just—”

  “You ain’t thinking about them two white girls, are you?” Albert asked. He took a step forward, wavered a little, stepped back, and put his hands on his hips. His thumb rested against the holster on his belt.

  “No, sir,” James said. “I ain’t thinking about nothing.”

  “You better be thinking about something,” Albert said. “We’re asking you some goddamned questions, so you better be thinking about something.”

  “Yes, sir,” James said. “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you thinking about then?” Albert asked.

  James didn’t seem to know how to answer, and now Albert was the one who was laughing. He looked over at Tom, but Tom just stared at the man in front of them.

  “That nigger and those two white girls come around here?” Tom asked.

  “No, sir,” James said. “Came over to the AME in Shuffletown.”

  “They held a meeting there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn,” Tom said. “You niggers’ll let anybody speak, won’t you?”

  James didn’t say anything, just kept his eyes on the ground.

  “What did they look like?” Tom asked.

  James seemed to think the question over for a few seconds. He opened his mouth to speak, then he stopped as if reconsidering.

  “A Yankee boy,” James finally said. “Seemed kind of sweet if you ask me. Fancy shoes. Nice hat.”

  “What about them white girls?” Albert asked. “They seem sweet to you?”

  “No,
sir,” James said.

  “What were their names?” Tom asked.

  “I can’t say I remember,” James said.

  Albert saw Tom reach into his pants pocket, and he heard the sound of coins clinking together.

  “Would a quarter dollar help your memory?” Tom asked. He waited. James didn’t move, didn’t speak. “I’m serious,” Tom said. “Would a quarter dollar help?”

  “It might, sir,” James said.

  If Albert had had time to realize anything, he would have realized that he could not control himself. He was on top of James before the man had a chance to lift his hand toward Tom’s open palm, where the quarter dollar awaited him. Albert knocked James over instead, clutched his hands around the man’s throat, and said something along the lines of “This damned nigger thinks we’re playing.”

  He didn’t realize that he might have made a mistake until he felt James’s fingers close around his wrists and all but pry his hands from around his neck. Albert straddled James’s chest, and as he watched he saw his own hands be lifted as if they were doll’s hands. The axe lay only a few feet to Albert’s left, and he considered struggling free of James’s grasp and lunging toward the axe. Then he remembered his pistol.

  Albert freed one of his hands and unholstered his gun and pointed it at James’s face. Both of them were panting now, staring one another in the eyes. Albert suddenly found himself stone-cold sober, as if he’d awakened from a drunken stupor unable to remember how he’d come to be sitting atop a colored man’s chest with a gun in his hand.

  Tom crouched down beside them and lay the quarter over James’s left eye. The right eye watched Albert and Tom, and as it shifted from Albert’s face to Tom’s, Albert watched the quarter jump with each flick of the eye. Tom held a second quarter in his hand and raised it so that James could see it.

  “Now, I’d hate to have to use this quarter for your other eye,” he said, “because that would mean that you wouldn’t be getting to spend it. You understand?”

  James nodded his head, looked from the quarter to the barrel of Albert’s gun.

  “A little bit ago I asked you for names,” Tom said, “and you don’t want me to have to ask you something I’ve already asked you.”

  “Ella,” James said. He swallowed hard, looked over at Tom. The quarter over his left eye trembled slightly. “That’s all I remember. One of the white ladies was named Ella.”

  “That’s all you remember?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, sir,” James said.

  Tom sighed. He looked over at Albert.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be good enough,” he said. “I reckon you’re going to have to shoot him.”

  Tom made to stand, and when he did James all but lifted his hand and reached for him.

  “Tonight,” James said.

  “What about tonight?”

  “They going to vote,” James said. “They going to vote to let colored in the union. Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Tom asked.

  James nodded his head. His breathing slowed.

  Tom stood, tossed the quarter onto James’s chest. It bounced off and disappeared into the dark grass. James lay there without moving, the first quarter still covering his left eye. Albert climbed off him, stood, holstered his pistol. He looked down at the man, wondered how long he’d lay there without moving once they left.

  “You can go on and get up,” Tom said. “Get back to your wood chopping.” He looked at Albert, smiled. “We’ve got to settle up inside, Roach, get down to Loray in time to cast our vote.”

  Albert and Tom didn’t even make it to Loray Street before they encountered a crowd of strikers marching on a picket line in front of the mill. The people hoisted signs and placards over their heads, and Albert could hear them chanting slogans. Lights burned inside the mill, casting a greenish glow on the street in front of it, and Albert saw men and women leaning from windows inside Loray to get a better look at the crowd in front of the mill.

  Adrenaline coursed through his body. He felt his heart pound against his ribs and he almost forgot that he’d been drunk all night. He looked at the hand that had pulled his pistol and held it to the colored man’s face just minutes earlier. The weight of the gun was still there.

  “Pull over,” Albert said. He pointed to the curb opposite the mill. “Pull over,” he said again, but Tom kept driving.

  “We can’t park near that shit,” Tom said. “Last thing we need is somebody spotting my auto.”

  “It don’t matter,” Albert said. “This is police business. Some nigger from New York running around with white women.”

  Tom pulled a U-turn and parked along the curb a few blocks west of the mill. He killed the engine, looked at Albert.

  “You ain’t the police,” he said. “Not until Chief takes you off suspension.” His eyes fell to Albert’s waist. “Give me that gun.”

  Albert laughed. “You ain’t serious.”

  “I am,” Tom said. “Hand it over. I ain’t taking the rap if you go out there and shoot somebody, drinking like you’ve been.”

  “You’ve been drinking too,” Albert said.

  “But I ain’t on the outs with the chief. You are. So hand it over.”

  Albert removed his pistol from the holster and handed it to Tom. Tom leaned his chest against the steering wheel and tucked the pistol into the back of his pants waist.

  “I thought we were friends,” Albert said.

  “We are,” Tom said. “That’s why I’m taking your gun.”

  Being there on the sidewalk on this warm night while something like a parade raged up the street before him reminded Albert of the afternoon they’d just spent in Charlotte, how he’d stood on a sidewalk just like this one and wished he were a better man than he was. He was drunk then and he was drunk now, but in Charlotte at least he’d had his pistol.

  The chanting and cheers grew louder as they approached the crowd. Automobiles headed east and west rolled past on Franklin Avenue, honking their horns and flashing their lights, people leaning from the windows and taunting the strikers as they passed. Albert saw mostly women of varying ages, but there were a few men, boys really, walking alongside the women. He looked for weapons, but he knew that most of the men were cowards and refused to picket without their rifles, choosing instead to stay close to the headquarters where Fred Beal allowed them to stay armed.

  “Let’s split up,” Tom said. “I’ll start at the mill and head north. You start up north on Loray Street, and we’ll meet in the middle. You see any niggers, you tell them you’re police, and you hold them there. There hasn’t been any coloreds at a one of these rallies, so there shouldn’t be any here tonight.”

  Albert didn’t say anything. He just stared out at the crowd, some of whom had started to look their way. He and Tom didn’t look like police officers, but it was clear they didn’t belong here with this ragtag group.

  “You hear me?” Tom said. “Split up.”

  “I’d feel better about this if I had my pistol,” Albert said.

  “You’ll get it back when we’re done,” Tom said. “Ain’t no reason to worry about it until then. You ain’t going to miss it.” He walked off down the sidewalk and disappeared into the crowd. Albert saw a few of the strikers note Tom’s arrival among them.

  Albert crossed to the other side of Franklin and walked along the storefronts toward Loray Street, where the edge of the crowd gave way to the open road that led to the train tracks and the tent colony and strikers’ headquarters just beyond it. He felt small and lost among this mass of people, all of them shouting and marching. He felt like he didn’t belong to anything.

  “Pig!” someone yelled. “Get out of here, pig!”

  Albert looked in the direction of the voice and saw a young woman holding a sign, her face pinched in anger. She spit at him, but he was too far away for it to touch him.

  “Get out of here, pig!” she said again.

  Her appearance shocked Albert as much as what she said. She c
ouldn’t have been any older than sixteen, tall and thin with black hair and a face that looked as if it had been laid over her skull and pulled tight. The girl elbowed a woman standing beside her and said something to her that Albert couldn’t hear. The other woman turned and looked at Albert. She spit at him too.

  Soon ten or fifteen people were taunting him, calling him “pig” and “fat boy.” A few of them even knew his name. A young man pushed his way through the crowd, his hands clenching a wooden placard on a stick. The sign read solidarity forever.

  “Get out of here, Roach,” the man said. Albert didn’t recognize him, and it was strange to hear his name spoken by someone he’d never seen before. It thrilled him. “You ain’t the police no more, Roach. We know you. Get on out of here.”

  Albert thought the man would stop marching toward him, but he kept coming, and as he got closer Albert prepared himself without fully realizing what his body was doing. By the time the man was within arm’s length, Albert had swiped the stake from his hands. The man stepped back, shocked, but not shocked enough. He charged toward Albert, and that was when Albert swung the stake, the placard’s slim edge catching the man’s face like a knife blade. His cheek fell open against his jaw, and blood covered his face, poured onto his shirt. It looked as if his throat had been cut, and Albert half-expected him to fall to his knees and die right there.

  A woman’s scream rose up from the crowd, but Albert didn’t have time to see to whom it belonged. They were on him almost immediately, and he was suddenly aware that he and Tom should not have come to the mill tonight.

  He swung the sign, and it was enough to keep the crowd at bay, but it moved slowly as it cut through the air like a giant fan. Albert tore the placard free so that all that remained was the stake, and he swung it like a billy club, aiming for heads and shoulders and knees. It was the first time in a long time that he felt as if he were accomplishing something, as if he were getting something done, making a difference.