Recovered, he found Scott and Bass and they gave the prisoners what they had from the jeep: water, bread, rations, candy bars, and cigarettes. Eventually, a medical officer, who had arrived with another unit, ordered them to stop. Too much food too soon could make the men even sicker. Instead the three soldiers were ordered to reconnoiter. Scott put his hand on Bertrand’s shoulder and told him he could wait in the jeep. Bertrand, looking at the many rows of barracks did not want to go farther, but he knew he had to. He would do it for Scott and Bass and for his mother and father.
Beyond the first barracks, he encountered more people—men and boys. A few, strong enough to talk, greeted them—Guten Tag—he knew, and the other sounds—Drobyden—zdravstvuite—ahoj—none of which he understood, but he nodded, tried to smile, but he wasn’t at all sure that his lips moved.
He came to a pile of bodies. He smelled them first, and he knew what the smell was. In the war, he smelled rotting people often. Still, he didn’t want to see them. He didn’t think he could control his repulsion. He would have to become like the farmer burying the maggoty carcass of a cow, a doctor slicing a cadaver, or a child poking a dead rat with a stick. The decimated men laid body upon body, with mouths open, eyes opened or shut, bony arms and legs entangled, unnerved him. Later he would help to bury them, thinking at times in the funerary talk of the Baptist church—ashes to ashes, dust to dust—or sometimes, thinking about not breathing in or not touching the rotten flesh, and at other times his thoughts would be far away. At Martelange, the snipers picked them off one by one as they rebuilt the bridge that would allow 761st Tank Battalion, an all Negro battalion, to cross the river and help in the rescue of the 101st Airborne, an all-white battalion trapped by the Germans at Bastogne. He remembered that three men he knew floated in the river, pushed by the current against the decking or snagged on the pontoons. He had escaped by feigning death, lying limp on the wooden decking which rose and fell with the current in the blood-furled water while the stench of shit, loosened from his friends, wafted over him. He remembered how empty he was then. He remembered what the emptiness said: You are shit. You are just shit to them. You are shit. You are just shit to them. You are….
He looked at the bodies for only a moment, then followed Scott and Bass into one of the bunkhouses. It was full of wooden bunks stacked five high, shelves more than bunks. On them lay the near dead and the newly dead. It stank and none of the soldiers could stay inside long. They found the medical labs with all manner of hooks and cutting instruments and jar after jar of body parts in formaldehyde—fingers, hands, toes and feet. Bertrand’s head began to swim. It was too much to see, too much to believe—ears, eyes, noses and teeth. “They don’t even do this shit to us at a lynching,” Scott offered. Penises, testes, livers and hearts. Lampshades of tattooed skin. Flower pot craniums.
Outside the camp, the three soldiers sat in the jeep, neither speaking nor looking at one another. Finally, one of them said, “America, it ain’t so bad, now.” Bertrand looked up. Scott still looked dazed, but Bass was talking quietly. “First kraut I see is a dead kraut. Dead, I swear.” Bertrand looked into the trees, the thick, dark pines at a little distance, and the slim, silver birches nearby. There are plenty of fascists in America, he thought. Plenty who would do just this kind of thing. But America ain’t this bad.
Suddenly the light made the trees shine.
TEN
That afternoon, after working for the Hensons, Bertrand had returned to his little house where he lived with this wife, Luellen, and his mother, Milledge. They had remodeled the house after he had come home from the war, but it was still the same house he had grown up in, with his parents and a younger brother, W.B., now a school teacher in Atlanta. Milledge had taken the smaller bedroom downstairs, the one the boys had as children, and he and Luellen had the upstairs to themselves. There were also a kitchen, a parlor, and a front porch. Outside, they had four acres with a good stand of trees and enough open space for a large garden, a chicken coop, and a small pigpen.
He sat on the front porch, among the potted plants his mother kept, and rested. He had felt drained after hoeing a short while for Mrs. Henson, and with the help of the boy, he had managed to lay in a few hills of squash. Mrs. Henson had been asking about his cousin Beah Thompson, and her inquiry, full of suspicion, it seemed to him, had angered him. The anger, coming after the memory of the camp, had weakened him. He didn’t like the woman. The boy, Lonnie, was an angel, much like his father. As a boy, he had wondered sometimes what it would be like to be white, to have good hair and light skin. He thought he might have looked a little like Lonnie had he been white. How easy the world would be. He could go anyplace, say anything, do anything. Now, he had come to realize that whites, especially poor whites, had their limitations too. Even Aileen Henson with her quiet distrust of him, or Maribelle Crookshank, the bossy know-it-all, had never been out of the state of Georgia. With his teacher’s degree, he was better educated than they would ever hope to be. Yet, because of his dark skin, they would never accept him as their equal, much less as their superior. And it was skin that made the difference, he thought. He could talk to Aileen on the telephone, speaking just as properly as any white man in Talmaedge County, and she would “yes suh” him to death. He could tell her that he lived in a small house in the country with his wife and his mother, and that he was a deacon in a Baptist church, a school teacher, and that his name was Johnson, and she would still think he was a white man. But if he came to her front door, she would send him around to the back, and she would never, on her own, allow him into her precious parlor. But Wayne Henson had been different. The war had changed him. Both of them. Wayne saw beyond color and was brave, or silly, or crazy enough not to put credence in the prejudices of the old ways. That was why Bertrand wanted to help the Hensons, to help the boy, to help the wife.
His mother came in from her job as a housekeeper at Woodbine Plantation, having walked the three miles home. They spoke and Milledge went to her room, and after a few minutes came out onto the porch to join him. She had barely taken her seat, when they heard the groan of an engine coming down the long driveway, and they waited without speaking to see who it was. It was their cousin, Beah Thompson, driving her father’s old truck. She was coming so fast that Milledge looked over at Bertrand with concern. For his part, Bertrand felt sleepy, and though he was aware of his mother’s concern and the truck sliding in the soft dirt in front of the house, he was also calculating the length of the shadow of a huge tulip poplar as it stretched across the yard.
“What in the world, girl?” Milledge said out aloud and stood. When Beah didn’t get out of the truck right away, Milledge thought out loud that the baby must have been coming. She stepped from the porch, and walked swiftly around to the driver’s side of the truck. Then she called with alarm for Bertrand to come.
Peering into the truck, Bertrand saw Beah’s face, eyes round and scared, and he knew it wasn’t a baby.
“Jimmy Lee,” she said, fighting to control her breath.
“What’s the matter with Jimmy Lee?”
Beah opened the truck door. Her stomach seemed to balloon as she arched to slide out of the truck. Milledge held on to her while she made the jump down from the running board. “He is in trouble with the law.”
Beah’s hands felt cold and she shivered when they helped her to the porch. “Oh Lord, Lord God.” She said, “Jesus, Jesus have mercy.” Bertrand helped to seat Beah on a cane chair, and she rambled into the story of a stabbing, talking fast, incomprehensively. By this time, Luellen had come to the porch with a glass of water for Beah. She spoke calmly and authoritatively to Beah, drawing on what Bertrand recognized as her teacher’s persona. Soon Beah began to talk more coherently.
She had driven over to Woodbine Plantation to pick up Jimmy Lee from work. Jimmy was still in the fields, she thought, so she parked the truck next to the fence just down from the barn and was leaning against the fence waiting for him, when she was startled by a voice behi
nd her.
“You ever try a Piedmont?” It was a white man she didn’t recognize at first, but she remembered she had seen him at her job, at Maribelle’s Diner. It was Vernon Venable. She wondered what he was he doing at Woodbine, Jack’s place.
“Sir?”
“You ever try a Piedmont cigarette?” Venable held the package out to her, shook it so three cigarettes telescoped out. “They not as good as Luckies, but they’re not bad.”
“No thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”
Venable took one with his lips. Lit it from the butt he had finished. “You waiting for Jimmy Lee?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. She couldn’t keep her voice from rising, wondering why Mr. Venable would know anything about her and Jimmy Lee.
“He ran over to town for me and Mr. Jacks. He’ll be back in a little bit.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll go and come back in a little while, then.”
Venable leaned his back against the fence, right next to her. She felt he was too close, stretching himself along the fence. “No need to run off. You can stay and talk to me a bit. He’ll be back in no time.” She scratched her head and looked at the truck and then her nails. “Now, now,” Venable said. “What are you worried about? I just want to strike up a conversation with you. I was sitting over there by myself, and I see you over here by yourself, and I said to myself, ‘I bet she’d like to try one of these new cigarettes.’ That’s the kind of person I am. It doesn’t make a difference to me if you’re white or colored, I can carry on a conversation with you.”
“Yes, sir.” She had tried to smile, had tried to seem pleasant, but she moved away from him, putting the hood of the truck between them.
He pushed himself away from the fence suddenly, crushing a stand of nightshade that had taken refuge from the mower by the fence post and moved down the fence so he was on her side of the truck. He pulled himself up and sat on the top rail. “Sure is hot today. I hate days like this. So hot and sticky.” He let smoke out of his mouth without blowing and smiled. His smile was broad, triangular, and high-crested, and she thought he was clownish looking. Then he flicked his forelock to one side, and she had a sinking feeling in her stomach. “When it gets this hot, all I can think about is taking off my shirt to get comfortable. What do you do to get comfortable on a hot day like this?” The crushed weed emitted an acrid odor.
“There ain’t much you can do. God made it hot, and God can cool it off.”
“You mean to tell me, you just suffer in the heat and don’t try to get any relief?”
“I don’t always have the luxury of seeking relief.” She realized her tone was getting sassy, but Venable did not seem offended; rather, he seemed to enjoy teasing her.
“You mean to tell me, you don’t ever get relief?”
“Rarely.”
“Ain’t that a shame.”
“That’s just the way it is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that a way.”
“No, sir.” She tried to look at him coldly. “It doesn’t have to be that a way.” She put her hand on the truck door handle, the passenger’s side.
“Now, we aren’t talking about the same thing, are we?”
“I think we are. We talking about the weather.”
Venable stretched his hands above his head. “No. We aren’t exactly talking about the weather.”
“Then help me sir, what are we talking about?”
Venable gave her the smile. “We are talking about … a lot of things. Like … social equality.” Now her stomach went into a tight ball. The baby in her stomach seemed to shrink.
“What’s that?” She asked. She was trying to think of a reason to leave.
“That’s when a good-looking gal like you and a handsome man like me don’t have to worry about carrying on a nice conversation. We can talk like we are equals because people are equals. You are equal to me and I’m equal to you.”
“I believe I’d better be going,” she said and opened the truck door.
He jumped down from the fence and grabbed her arm. “Whoa. Hold up. You don’t have to run.”
“Mr. Venable,” she said firmly, “I do believe I have to be going.”
He didn’t let go of her arm, just above the wrist. His hand was strong and when she tugged at it, she couldn’t break the grip, in spite of the fact that they both were sweaty and the hand slid down to her wrist.
“We were talking just fine.”
“Please let me go.”
“How come you changed on me all of a sudden like that? What did I say to you?”
“Just let me go!”
She twisted her arm again, but he held it tightly.
“Tell you what? One little hug and I’ll let you go. Just a little hug.” He pulled her closer. She dug her toes into the ground, and he jerked. She stepped forward and dug in again, this time planting her heels right on top of his foot, but he pulled her closer, jerking her at will, first to the left and then to the right, as if to show her his strength. He pulled her forward again, against him, and her belly pushed against his thighs.
“Pregnant!” He let her go.
She stepped back and before she could think about it, she slapped him, her nails scratching his lips. He glared at her a moment, seemingly as astonished as anything. Then, he slapped her back. She fell against the truck. Her ears rang and the side of her face stung. When she could think clearly enough to look out for him, she saw that he was walking away, on the other side of the fence, across the pasture toward his place at Thousand Acres. Now, feeling her face for cuts, she turned and saw Jimmy Lee striding toward her. Quickly, she pulled her hair back around her ears, and ran her tongue over her lips. She hoped there was no mark on her. “Ahh, Jimmy Lee,” she called, trying to make herself sound cheerful, but the ruse was in vain. Jimmy Lee glanced at her, checking, it seemed, to see that she was not hurt. He said nothing, but placed his hands on the top rail and vaulted the fence and went in a determined stride to catch Venable. “God, no, Jimmy,” she called to him. “Jimmy, I’m okay. Stop! Come here now!” Jimmy paid no attention but continued after Venable. She climbed and saddled the plank fence, and slid down the other side and, as fast as her heavy belly allowed, ran after Jimmy, calling for him to stop. The pasture smelled of mold and wild onion and was spotted with dung. A short distance ahead, she saw Jimmy approaching Venable, and Venable stopping and turning. They seemed for a moment to be old friends, greeting and chatting.
Closer, she could see the stiffness in Jimmy Lee’s body. Usually, his body was as loose as running water, but now it was a blade of ice, his shoulders flared and turned to Venable.
“Mr. Venable,” she heard Jimmy Lee say. “I saw you hit my girl. Slapped her in the in the face.”
Venable put his right hand in his pocket. “I’m sorry, Jimmy Lee. I had to.”
“You ain’t had to do nothing.”
“She was acting fresh towards me.”
Jimmy Lee’s fists clenched. Beah was close enough to grab him by the elbow, but he shook her hand off. “You a liar.” He drew back and raised the fists. “You a goddamn liar.”
“Jimmy,” Beah said, her breath heavy. “I’m all right. Now, Jimmy.”
“Why don’t you just cool off and we will talk about this later?” Venable said.
“She pregnant, Mr. Venable. She pregnant and she ain’t no whore.” Jimmy Lee gestured again with his fist.
“Jimmy Lee, I don’t want to hurt you.” Venable said. I like you, so I’m fixin’ to give you a chance to cool off. Go on back to the barn and you won’t get hurt.”
Jimmy Lee remained stiff, breathing heavily, and clenching and unclenching his fists as if trying to make up his mind as to hit Venable or not. Beah took his arm again, working her hand down to his hand and holding it. He seemed to relax. He stepped backwards, shook his head as if to clear it. Then, as if to gag out frustration, he pulled his hand away from Beah and snatched at the air, opened his mouth wide and growled at Venable. He spun around to
go, taking her hand again. Just as he did so, Venable said, “Now, that’s a good boy.”
Suddenly Jimmy Lee dropped Beah’s hand, and before she figured it out, he was rushing Venable, throwing a flurry of fists in the white man’s face. A hard one landed on Venable’s cheek and he staggered, fell back. As he fell, he whipped his hand from his pocket, and released the blade of knife. The blade was narrow, worn and streaked, but its belly held a clean white edge. Venable swung the blade as he fell and Jimmy Lee dodged and pounced, landing so he sat on Venable’s chest. The men tussled over the knife, Jimmy Lee bending Venable’s wrist backwards. Venable tried to buck Jimmy Lee off, but the smaller man slid down onto Venable’s stomach, riding him, and prying open his fingers. For a moment everything focused on the knife, and Venable’s two fingers which held it. Suddenly it was gone. Venable twisted, rolling in dried dung, trying to come up on his knees, and patting the ground for the knife. Then Beah saw the blade by a clump of broomstraw. She wanted to reach for it, but Jimmy Lee was there first. Grasping the knife like a prod, palm up, he began to tease Venable with it. Then to her horror, Jimmy Lee poked at the white man, first in the fleshy part of the shoulder, then on the back of the arm; a long cut, more tearing the shirt than the flesh, from the rib cage down to the hip, and at last, as if insulting the white man, a punch in the buttocks.
The Vain Conversation Page 11