The Vain Conversation

by Anthony Grooms

  His corn was knee high and bright green when he could see it, the young leaves holding to their yellow color. Soon they would darken, become bluer. Corn was as American as apple pie, he thought, more so, since apples came from Europe and corn originated in America, first grown by the Indians. You never heard of Indian apples, but Indian corn was as common as anything. His was a yellow dent corn, and he already knew he would make a good yield off of it. It would be ground to make good yellow meal for corn bread and grits. He stretched his arms above his head, breathed in the apple-vanilla smoke that clouded around him. Then he thought of an old song Spurgeon had sung.

  Tobacco is a dirty weed. I like it.

  It satisfies no normal need. I like it.

  It makes you thin, it makes you lean,

  It takes the hair right off your bean.

  It’s the worst darn stuff I’ve ever seen.

  I like it.

  Again, he laughed to himself. A breeze danced through the trees. Even now he sat in his father’s chair, the one from which Spurgeon used to survey the fields, looking for nothing, only enjoying what he saw. He had become his father, he thought, a man at last, a gentleman. He was a gentleman of the New South and one he thought Spurgeon would approve of. He remembered that it was on this very porch, more than thirty years earlier, when Spurgeon had turned to him, recognizing his maturity, saying, “I can’t tell you what to do, but be a man and you will learn to be a man.”

  It had happened on the night of the lynching of Rye Johnson—“Uncle Rye,” as he had been known to the white families until his lynching; after which, he was called “Nigger Rye” or “That Johnson Nigger,” or “The Nigger Who Raped that Cuthbertson Woman.” It was a Saturday evening, early August, 1916, Jacks remembered. He and Spurgeon were sitting on the porch. His mother was indoors, cleaning the kitchen. From a long ways off they heard a car, first on the road, and then sputtering up the drive.

  “Model T,” Spurgeon said. He did not take his eyes off the field, planted in tobacco that lay before him. “That’ll be that ass Billy Venable.” Few owned cars in Talmaedge County at that time. “Ask him what he wants.”

  Jacks had gone around the front, promptly obeying his father. It was indeed Billy Venable’s Model T. Dented and muddy, it no longer looked new. Billy Venable was driving, and he blew on the horn, which sounded as much like a goose as it did a machine. Jacks counted six people in the car. Jake Cuthbertson was sitting in the front next to Billy Venable. In the back sat three men Jacks did not know, all of whom wore white. Later he learned they were officials in the Ku Klux Klan, visitors from Alabama. Vernon Venable stood on the running board next to his uncle, Billy.

  “Where’s your daddy, boy?” Billy Venable shouted.

  “He’s ’round on the porch, sir,” Jacks answered, and as he turned to indicate, he saw his father come around the corner.

  Spurgeon crossed his arms over his chest, holding his pipe in hand. “What can I do for you gentlemen this time of evening?”

  “Oh, Spurgeon,” blurted Billy. “Come out with us tonight. We got some coon hunting to do.”

  Spurgeon shifted on his feet and put the pipe in his mouth. “I don’t reckon it’s coon season, Billy.”

  The men in the car laughed. Venable laughed. All of them were drinking. “It’s always coon season,” Billy Venable said, and the other men in the car agreed. “Besides, we ain’t fixin’ to eat this coon. We might fry’im, but we ain’t eating him.” Again there was laughter.

  Jacks wasn’t sure what the men were talking about at first. He made eye contact with Venable, who beckoned to him with his head. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

  “Now, what this coon do to deserve getting fried?” Spurgeon asked.

  Jake Cuthbertson volunteered. “Goddamn nigger took a shot at me. Near to hit me, too.” The other men in the car laughed at his inflection.

  “What nigger?” Spurgeon asked, his tone serious.

  “That’ll be Uncle Rye,” Billy Venable said.

  Spurgeon said nothing and sucked deeply on his pipe. Smoke coiled from his mouth slowly and formed a cloud around his head.

  “Uncle Rye?” Jacks whispered, turning to his father. “Uncle Rye is a good ole boy. Uncle Rye wouldn’t shoot at anybody.” Rye was a farmer and a lay minister. Approaching sixty, he had taken on the snow-headed appearance of a good ole Uncle Remus from the picture books that the white children read in school. Jacks liked him. He often came into the Venable feed store to purchase pig feed or crop seed. He settled his bills in cash, and because he was one of the few coloreds in Talmaedge to own land rather than sharecrop, he rarely ran a tab at the store.

  “What did you do to him to make him want to shoot you?” Spurgeon asked.

  Cuthbertson looked around at the other men. “Let’s just say that nigger and I had a discussion about a property line.” Cuthbertson owned a small farm on the west side of the town of Bethany.

  Spurgeon shook his head and smiled. “You got caught increasing your real estate, Jake?”

  “Goddamnit, Jacks,” Cuthbertson said. “Act like a white man.”

  Spurgeon cleared his throat. He stepped down to the top step of the porch. He spoke evenly. “Jake Cuthbertson, I don’t reckon a piece of trash like you will ever tell me to act like a man, white or not. I know what I am. I know I would have shot a piece of trash like you, if you had come moving my property mark. Uncle Rye ought to have killed you, and I reckon he spared you just because you are a white man. Now, I am sorry for Uncle Rye. He’s a man of pride and courage, as far as I can see. But if you think you got to go off now and lynch him up, then that’s your business. It doesn’t involve me any.”

  One of the men from the back seat interrupted. “It does too involve you. It involves every white man. A nigger has shot at a white man. Could have killed him. Could have violated his home, his wife, his children. Maybe you will be next.”

  Spurgeon did not look at the man, but continued to address Jake Cuthbertson. “I can take care of myself and my own. If I know of a nigger that needs lynching, I’ll lynch him. And I’ll do it sober, and I’ll do it myself.”

  “Spurgeon,” Billy Venable said and laughed, “That’s mighty unsportin’.”

  “Well,” Spurgeon said, “I guess I don’t see the sport in it. Now, I advise you to go on home and leave Uncle Rye alone. I reckon, if he is as smart as I think, he’s already half way to Atlanta—”

  “No, he ain’t. Got him, already,” Cuthbertson said. “He over in the Bethany jail, waiting.” Cuthberton grinned.

  “Well,” Spurgeon said, stepping back onto the porch. “Then, you don’t need me.” He walked back to the side porch.

  Jacks admired his father’s stature before the other men, the calmness of his voice when the other men’s voices became jittery and feminine. Now he took the same stance as his father, on the top step, his arms folded. But then, Venable beckoned with his head again. He smiled and winked, and Jacks suddenly felt a rush of excitement. He shuttered to maintain control. He had never seen a lynching except on postcards, and now there would be one in Bethany.

  “Com’on Noland,” Venable said. “You fixin’ to miss out on the biggest thing ever happen in Talmaedge.”

  “This year,” one of the men in the back seat said, and all the men laughed.

  Jacks went to the side porch and found his father standing in the dark, the glow of the pipe lighting his face as he smoked.

  “Papa,” he started, his tone slightly pleading.

  Spurgeon didn’t move to look at him. “I ain’t the one to tell you to go or not to go. You the only one can do that. But I can tell you this. It ain’t so easy as you might think to kill a man.” He turned to face Jacks, his face cast in darkness. “If you go, even if you don’t so much as throw a pebble, you are in it as much as the man who ties the noose. You might just be a bystander, but nobody is innocent, son. Even I, standing here, knowing it is Uncle Rye, am among the guilty. It is the guilt I bear for being who
I am.” The pipe glowed as he toked, let out a mouthful of smoke. “It’s like standing in a great, muddy river. You can’t help but to get wet.”

  The two were quiet for a moment. The car horn honked. “What must I do?” Jacks asked.

  “Go,” his father said and sighed. “But be a man about it.”

  “What does that mean, Papa?”

  “You have to learn that for yourself.”

  Jacks rode on the other running board. He held on to the side mirror and braced himself against the back seat, so that his lanky body seemed to spread around Jake Cuthbertson. He turned his face over his shoulder to guard against the dust and flying gravel, but he also looked over the open car at Venable.

  It seemed that Venable conversed with him, through his eyes, his smile, the nodding of his head and windblown hair. Jacks returned the smile, and felt genuinely part of the excitement Venable seemed to rouse. But there was a knot in his stomach, tied by his father. Why hadn’t his father come? And what did he mean by being a man? He would watch someone die, he knew. He had never seen a dead man, but had read plenty about death in adventure novels and had seen pictures on postcards and in death portraits. Still he did not know what to expect, or how he would feel about it, especially since it was Uncle Rye, a man he knew. And his father had said it wouldn’t be easy.

  Again, he looked at Venable, who seemed to be on the verge of breaking into song. Venable’s face was bright, lit by the newly risen moon. Behind him, the forest, with its tangles of vines, seemed to move. There was kudzu, he knew, but also Virginia creeper, with its elegant circlet of five leaves, trumpet flower, honey suckle, feral wisteria, poison ivy, fox grape—all tangling, twining, twisting like a roil of snakes in the canopy.

  When the car slowed, as it approached the town square, Venable signaled Jacks and jumped from the running board. The square was full of people, the heaviest part of the crowd being in front of the small, brick jail, a wing of the tin domed courthouse. Mostly the crowd was men, but there were women and children, too. Many were drinking. Venable had beers in his pockets and offered one to Jacks. Jacks took the bottle, smelled it first, and when Venable laughed at him, took a sip. It was warm and tasted very bitter and he wanted to spit it out.

  “You will like it better if you take a big mouthful,” Venable said and demonstrated. He winced and laughed, his lips wet. The crowd jostled to and fro, expectant. Some asked when the lynching would start and noted the lateness of the hour, though it was only just after nine o’ clock. “But these things can take all night,” someone complained. Another said she objected to so much drinking, especially since the next day was Sunday. There were many strangers in the crowd, Jacks noted, and a few wore Klan robes of various colors. Some wore their hoods, resembling medieval priests, but none of them hid his face.

  The crowd lurched and excited shouts and shooting emanated from the side of the square opposite the jail. The two young men went to investigate. When they got the story, Venable broke into high, choking laughter. A colored man had come unsuspecting upon the crowd and had wanted to know what was going on. When he was told, he began to run and some of the people chased him, throwing stones, sticks and bricks at him. Someone fired off some shots. “That nigger went lickety-split,” a man said and laughed.

  “Where’s that Johnson nigger,” someone else shouted. “We want that nigger Johnson.” Two women talked about Mrs. Cuthbertson, wondering how badly she had been violated. “How filthy,” one said, “to have that big, dirty, grimy baboon all over you. With all that hot nigger smell and sweat.”

  “I’d just like to see ’im,” the other replied.

  “We want Johnson!” a man shouted. “Nigger. Nigger. We want the nigger. Bring out the nigger now.”

  “Nigger. Nigger. Nigger,” the crowd chanted back. “Great God, bring out the nigger,” they seemed to chant. “Now is the time for the killing of the nigger; now is the time for the blood of the nigger. Hit’s time. Hit’s time. Hit’s time for the killing of the nigger.”

  Again the crowd lurched and rushed toward the jail house door where the sheriff had appeared with Rye Johnson. Venable pushed through the crowd, Jacks following. Jacks did not recognize Rye Johnson and thought for a moment that another colored man had taken his place. But then he began to put together the man’s features, the white hair, the round face, swollen and missing its spectacles. The body was bowed, wobbly as a ragdoll. It seemed to be leaning on the sheriff first and then the deputy. A great shout went up from the crowd, with hoots and hisses. Then it began to attack Rye Johnson with stones and sticks until the sheriff fired off his gun to calm them. “Here’s your nigger,” he shouted. “Eat him, if you can.” He pushed Rye Johnson into the crowd. For a moment there was a scuffle and fistfights broke out among the men as they vied to get to Rye Johnson. For a while, no one had control of Rye Johnson as he was pushed one way and another, all the while pelted and beaten with objects as well as fists. When he was pushed near Venable, Venable struck a blow to the top of his head. He turned, grinning to Jacks. Jacks clenched his fist. He saw his chance to strike the man, who was now on his knees, his eyes round with fear. Jacks did not strike. When he saw Johnson’s eyes, more like the eyes of a giant bird, or toad, nearly completely black, all pupil, he felt he could strike. It made him feel strong to see the man’s fear, and he thought it would give him pleasure to strike him as Venable had done. The muscles in his arms quivered. He flexed his back and threw out his chest, but he did not raise his fist. His temples throbbed, pleasurably, with tension. For the moment, that was enough.

  Rye Johnson fell and curled into a ball and the crowd showered him with spit, tobacco juice, and phlegm. Suddenly, he jumped up, bowling into the crowd, as if to escape. The crowd fell back in surprise, as did Jacks, when the man, sickened and gray in the face, ran toward him. Does he recognize me? Jacks thought. He remembered that the man had always been courteous, deferential, though not solicitous of him. “It’s a fine day, Young Mister Jacks,” he would have said with a nod. “A fine day, sir.” When Rye Johnson turned away from him, Jacks realized that the man was crazed, no more than a baited opossum or a trapped coyote, desperate for a last resort. It was then that Jacks relaxed his chest. There was no longer a sense of danger.

  Someone shot a gun, and the crowd quieted. Rye Johnson lay in the middle of Main Street. His leg was crooked under him, the shot having blasted open his knee. He let out a shriek, and seeing he was down, the crowd moved in with axe handles and tire irons. He turned over and over in the street, trying to escape the blows, but each way he turned, he was struck. Once again the crowd stopped, as a car backed into the street. The men in the car got out. Jacks recognized them. They were the men from Alabama. It was Billy Venable’s car and Billy Venable and Jake Cuthbertson were inside. Bending his broken leg back into place, the men tied one end of a rope around Rye Johnson’s feet and held onto the other end like bronco busters, and got into the rear of the car as it drove away. They dragged Rye Johnson down Main Street, then turned just before reaching the Venable townhouse, and dragged him down Poplar Street. Then they went a short way down Dogwood Street, bouncing on the old cobblestones, to the delight of the oohing and ahhing crowd as it chased behind. “They are going to the old tree!” Someone shouted. Venable tapped Jacks on the shoulder, and they took a shortcut down an alleyway and across a fallow field to the very edge of town. It was in sight of Coon Bottom, where many of the blacks who worked as maids and lawn men for the townspeople lived.

  At the edge of the field stood a large old beech tree. Its silvery bark shone in the moonlight and the wide spreading leafy branches cast down a puzzle of shadows on the ground. The bark of the beech was smooth and scarred with many initials and lovers’ hearts. Already a noose hung from a thick, low branch.

  There were a few moments of quiet, and then the young men heard the procession, headed by the honking car and followed by the shrill, nearly child-like screams from the crowd. Once the crowd had reconvened, one of the men from Ala
bama stood on the hood of the car. His white robe lifted in the breeze and shone in the moonlight. In a hoarse voice he spoke words that Jacks could barely understand. It seemed he spoke in English, but it resonated as ancient, more visceral and rhythmic. He gesticulated, throwing wide his arms as if to embrace the moonlight. The crowd encouraged him with hoots and shouts, and when he was done he cried out, “Thus always to niggers!” There was loud drumming as someone hit a stick against a large can. Then a group, perhaps five men, lifted Rye Johnson to his feet. The man had no fight in him. He was naked, bloody from head to foot. Large pieces of skin had been chafed from his face and chest. He could no longer stand and three of the men held him on his feet while the other two, fumbling, put the noose around his neck. They tied the end of the rope to the Model T’s front suspension strut and Billy Venable reversed the car. Uncle Rye flew into the air, and much to the delight of the crowd, he twisted, pedaled and tried to pull the rope away from his neck. Before he settled, the drumming came again, and two men with cans of gasoline doused Rye Johnson and set him on fire.

  In the morning the two young men sat in the backyard of the Venable’s townhouse. After the murder, they had lost sight of Billy Venable, and though Jacks had wanted to walk back to Woodbine, Venable convinced him to stay. They had drunk more beer, and gradually, Jacks had come to like it, swallowing big, fizzy mouthfuls as his friend suggested. Venable still talked about the lynching. “That’s one nigger that won’t be troubling white women again.”

  “I reckon not,” Jacks said. “But what woman was it? Was that the trouble?”

  “Who knows?” Venable said. “The trouble is … the trouble is … well, who knows what the trouble is? Anyhow, it was awful silly of those idiots to burn him up with a rope on him. Any fool knows, you need to chain him if you fixin’ to burn him. But anyhow it was spectacular. I never saw anything like it before—whoosh—and all that smoke and the nigger didn’t even scream.”