The Lesser People

by Lee Thompson

  “No,” Preacher said, “that’s why I’m here. We can help each other. We can fight together.”

  I tried to picture him fighting and it seemed ridiculous. As if reading my thoughts he said, “Don’t think that because I give sermons that I’m against fighting. You read the Old Testament when you’re a little older and you’ll see that God himself was a warrior. Because sometimes words aren’t enough and you have to use your fists and your experience.”

  I said, “What experience do you have? In fighting I mean.”

  “More than most people would expect, but probably not enough to see me through this,” he said. “Time will tell. It always does.”

  “I want Daddy to teach me how to fight.” I expected him to tell me that I was too fat to fight anybody but he didn’t. He just nodded his head, his arms braced on his jutting knees. I noticed he still had his shoes on and wondered if he always went to bed like that or if he planned to do like Ben and sneak out the window once he thought my parents were sleeping.

  He said, “I wish we would have found your brother. It’s not good for him to be out right now.”

  “I know it,” I said. “The sheriff is mad.”

  “The whole town, Elijah. They’re all mad. All infected.”

  “With what?”

  “Hell if I know,” he said.

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday, July 5th

  On Tuesday morning Daddy and Preacher sat with me and Momma in the living room. They’d went over where they’d been in their search for Benny and were looking to me and my mother for any more ideas when in the distance I thought I heard the scream of a dozen engines and I shivered, thinking about what that meant. I changed my stance to turn a deaf ear to it. Daddy’s color drained from his face though as he glanced toward the front of the house. Preacher nodded, said, “They’re coming.”

  I thought about what Preacher had said last night in my bedroom, how the whole town was infected but he didn’t know what the hell with. It seemed to me they were infected with fear, just like I was, it was in the air, in the water, in our blood. I thought, We should just get far from here where it’s safe and people leave you alone.

  The motors outside thrummed and the air inside grew hot with expectancy. Whatever Daddy had wanted to talk to me about would have to wait and I could tell that he didn’t like it. And he didn’t like men bringing guns to his house and endangering his family, and he didn’t like that he’d killed a man.

  He put his hands just above his knees and stood slowly, as if it pained him. He pulled me into a hug and said, “Whatever you chose to do, be a decent man. That’s all I ask. Be a decent man, Eli. And be fair to everybody.”

  Preacher stood also, moved into the hall and glanced toward the yard. Momma stopped humming and I heard glass break as car doors slammed and she dropped something to the floor. Daddy squeezed me tight once, said, “They might kill me.”

  I shook my head violently, tears streaming, trying not to imagine them shooting him, trying to avoid thinking about a dozen guns blazing and Daddy’s body dancing as blood jetted from his wounds in the morning light.

  I pressed my head to his chest and said, “Don’t go out there.”

  He roughed my hair, cupped the back of my neck and kissed the top of my head. His lips were cold and dry. He said, “Preacher is going to look after you and your mom and Ben until this is all straightened out. And I’m going to tell Bill that I’ll go easy, and maybe the courts will go easy on what happened with Conover.”

  “They won’t,” I cried, clinging to him, but he peeled me away and squeezed my shoulder. He said, “Be a decent man, Eli. Decent but firm.” Momma nodded at me and followed him outside, and I noticed that she didn’t take Daddy’s pistol and I thought that was stupid of her because she’d need it, Daddy would need it, we’d all need it so they didn’t hurt him.

  They walked into the hall and I wanted to follow but Preacher stopped me, blocked the way, his long fingers against my chest and his fingers felt like ice against my bare skin. Preacher said, “You gotta be strong for your Momma. Your pa can take care of himself.”

  Not here, I thought, not in this town. Not where they hate him.

  Preacher held me as men’s voices raised above the noise building in my throat. He was an older man and he held me loosely so not to hurt me. Outside a man shouted and another laughed and I heard Momma cry out. It got worse, the noises, the crying, the laughter, Daddy’s yelling for them to let Momma go. I couldn’t take much more of hearing it but I couldn’t turn away either, and I was one of them, they were my family, and we stuck together—Momma showed me that last night—even if we didn’t agree, even if one of us took things too far and someone got badly hurt. I felt myself still inside and wondered if that was how it went for Daddy when he geared up to do something that required all his strength and courage. I basked in it for a second as the fighting outside continued and my father’s voice cut in and out, drowned by the laughter of cruel men.

  I bit Preacher’s hand in the meaty area between his thumb and index finger and he jerked away, drawing the hand to his chest, confusion in his eyes for a second, but that was all I needed. My legs were pistons on the hall floor like Daddy’s arms had been pistons on Conover’s face and neck, and the wind my speed generated sounded loud on one side and like a soft whisper on the other. I thought I’d find the pistol Momma had used last night, but in the mudroom, looking through the window, I could see that there wasn’t time for that.

  Five men kicked Daddy, in the ribs, the legs, the arms that he curled around his head, lying on his side in a fetal position. They all held guns. His blood was bright against the grass and their boots were black smudges like scythes slicing through the air. They kicked him for what felt an eternity, until he didn’t have the strength to protect his head and his arms dropped, and a couple of boots caught his jaw, his skull, and he rolled over on his back with dead eyes staring at the sky.

  From thirty feet away, through the window, with Momma between us, two men holding her and her lip bleeding and hair tugged in all directions, the men hovering over Daddy grinned, satisfied with what they’d done, and I imagined these same men doing that to little blind Isaiah by the river bank, and to others that I’d never seen but only heard whisper of in passing people on the street.

  Preacher’s hand, the one I bit, settled on my shoulder. He sighed and pulled the binding that kept the curtains tied back. They fell over the window in a wash of jade green fabric.

  *****

  The men threw Momma, sobbing and cursing, on the porch. Gravel crunched in the driveway and the cars rolled away, their dark forms like shadows drifting through the curtains. I didn’t feel much of anything and couldn’t think straight, still seeing Daddy in my mind’s eyes, broken and defeated, on his back and motionless.

  I swallowed a lump in my throat and it about choked me going down. Preacher waited until he was sure the men were all gone before he cracked the front door and peeked out. He sighed again, a weak sigh, as he looked down at my mother where she lay crumpled on the porch like discarded paper. Her dress was torn and she cradled her left arm. I could just see her around his side. She looked at me for a split second, cried harder, looked away. Preacher opened the door wider and stepped onto the porch and squatted beside her. He held her damaged arm, whispered, “I think it’s broken.”

  She nodded to herself, maybe in agreement, maybe not hearing what he said at all.

  I wanted to squeeze past them and see if Daddy was still there in the grass, maybe on one knee, trying to stand with no one to help him to his feet. Momma and Preacher didn’t even look out that way so I assumed they didn’t have the courage to, or the men who had kicked the tar out of Daddy had loaded him in one of the vehicles and taken him. Not knowing for sure about killed me, so I slid out past Preacher where he knelt next to my mother and I stood on the highest step and studied the lawn, the street, the driveway. He was gone and taking him seemed as much of a crime as what they’d done befo
re loading him up and spiriting him away.

  I stood there for a long time, until Preacher made me wash up and change my clothes, and then he helped Momma in his car. He called to me but I didn’t hear him at first. He beeped the horn, called again, “Come on Elijah. We gotta take your mom into town so a doctor can set her arm so it’ll heal right.”

  Standing on the porch in fresh clothing, I wiped my face, annoyed with the heat, annoyed with Momma because she didn’t take the pistol out with her and she hadn’t stopped the men like she did last night. At that moment I felt like she deserved her broken arm. I was about to tell Preacher that I wasn’t going with them, but he’d crossed the distance while I was hating on Momma and he scooped me up, me feeling so big at the time, but still, at ten years old, barely up past his waist. He threw me in the back seat and put the seat back and squeezed his tall, lanky frame in behind the steering wheel.

  Forksville was busy since it was Monday morning, many headed to work, some stooping idly over cold drinks on porches with torn shingles. Downtown was crammed with cars, policemen, pedestrians, women pushing babies in strollers. Preacher parked in front of a dark brown brick building. Windows covered the whole front wall. People milled about inside, some of them sitting restlessly, others pacing, none of them acknowledging each other.

  We walked into the air conditioned office, Preacher between my mother and me. There were a lot of older people, older than Momma or Preacher, sitting or pacing. They looked at us, looked away, then looked again. Many of them stared openly, and some whispered to each other. It made me uncomfortable. Momma, though hurting, seemed to be back to herself. She stared back at a couple of old ladies in flowered polyester dresses across the aisle and said, “You have something to say speak it out loud.”

  The old women got up and moved to another set of chairs, facing away from us.

  I asked Preacher, “Do they think you did that to her arm?”

  He shook his head. He said quite loudly, with a little more cheer than seemed natural, “They don’t brush elbows with anybody different, or beneath them. Don’t associate with pond scum that gives the time of day to the lesser people.”

  I thought Momma would tell him to shut up and not cause a scene because she didn’t like the negroes much either, sometimes didn’t even think of them as people, but she loved Daddy, deep down and forever, and sometimes I think she tried to see them from his perspective even if it hurt some hidden part of her pride.

  Preacher watched a young mother bring in a little girl. She went to the receptionist’s desk and signed a paper, offered I.D. and whatever else was needed. He stood, touched Momma’s shoulder, said, “I better sign you in, been so long since I’ve had to come here that I’d forgotten the ritual.”

  She nodded, not meeting his eyes, thinking about god-knew-what.

  After Preacher walked up and stood behind the young woman, I said, “Is Daddy dead?”

  She turned her eyes to me, pursed her lips. “He ain’t dead. Those men would be in a heap of trouble if they killed him because I wouldn’t let it go like some families do.”

  I nodded. She seemed so strong and sure again. It helped me feel strong and sure, too. I said, “Is Preacher letting it go?”

  “What happened to Daddy?”

  “No, with Isaiah.”

  She shook her head. “That man may preach forgiveness, but justice comes first.”

  I studied Preacher’s back. He stood straight, with his shoulders squared, not afraid to look anybody in the eye. He was gentle yet aware. I could see why him and my father were friends, why they respected each other.

  I said, “Is Daddy in jail?”

  Momma nodded. “After my arm is taken care of and we find Benjamin we’re going to see him to make sure they’re not antagonizing him.”

  I had no idea what she meant, but I looked forward to seeing him, and I looked forward to finding Benjamin because even if he was a jerk sometimes I missed him and thought he should be with us.

  At the desk, the secretary glanced past Preacher and looked at us, hard and cold, then indifferent. She motioned for him to wait a moment while she tended something, then she disappeared into a room behind her and shut the door. Preacher glanced at me and smiled a strained smile. Or maybe he was smiling at Momma, or maybe all the world, thinking on how silly we were to hurt each other so bad over nothing.

  I wished I had the courage to ask him but the door beyond him opened again and a man in a white coat came out, some shiny metal contraption draped around his neck, and he stopped at the desk. He pointed at us and I heard him say, “You’re with them, right?” After Preacher nodded and began to explain what had happened and what Momma needed the doctor raised a hand, palm out like a policeman directing traffic. He said, “You’ll have to find another establishment to tend her. I’m afraid I can’t help you all.”

  Momma stood and pulled me out of the chair with her good arm. Preacher leaned in and grabbed the doctor’s tie and jerked him forward so that their noses were touching. Momma held my hand and we approached them and Preacher used words against the doctor that preachers aren’t supposed to use.

  The doctor grew pale but wouldn’t accept Momma as a patient. Preacher didn’t ask why and neither did Momma so I expected they knew but I didn’t and I wanted to punch the doctor in the stomach.

  Preacher shoved him back and the doctor straightened his tie and said, “You’re lucky I don’t have you arrested.”

  Preacher said, “You call the cops on me and I’ll make sure my visit here is worth it.”

  Momma said, “We’ll find somewhere else, Arthur,” but her voice sounded doubtful. She nearly had to drag Preacher out of there. On the curb, next to his car, he opened the door for Momma. We climbed in and he shut the door and knelt down on the curb and spoke through the open window with the building gigantic behind him and the sun a blinding yellow dot above. People kept on moving around us and we felt stuck in the mud. Preacher stared down the street for a bit. There were all white people there, no blacks, because they weren’t allowed downtown since the Council took a vote and the good citizens didn’t want the beauty and strength of our community mucked up.

  After thinking on something for a bit, Preacher said, “I know a doctor who will see you.”

  Momma shifted in the seat. I wondered how bad her arm hurt, seemed like a broken bone would hurt awful bad, but she never complained. She squinted at Preacher, called him Art again, said, “You’re talking a colored doctor.”

  “He’s as good as that toad in there and he won’t rape your purse.” He licked his lips, squinted back, said, “Plus he knows Hank and likes him. I imagine he’ll get to you right away because of it even if he is busy.”

  Momma lowered her head and looked at the fabric of her dress. She shook her head. She said, “We need to find Benjamin.”

  I had a lot I wanted to say but held my tongue because you didn’t give your opinion without it being asked, not as a child. Preacher tapped his fingers against the door and said, “He’s a boy and sometimes boys run off, especially at his age. But you make me a list of numbers to call and I’ll call them to find out where he’s at.”

  Momma said, “Won’t be but a couple places to check. I’d rather we just stop in.”

  Preacher looked hard into her eyes like he disapproved, then his face softened and he tilted his head and said, “All right.” But the way he said it didn’t sound like he was all right with it. He sounded like she was making a bad choice and he wished she’d reconsider. Yet he knew that Momma wouldn’t. She made up her mind quickly, following what her gut told her to do, whether she regretted it or not. After Preacher climbed into the car and wiped sweat from his forehead, he said, “Where to first?”

  Momma directed him and he steered the car off Main Street and down several side streets that I didn’t know all that well and people, older people, watched us from their porches. Nobody smiled or waved the way they used to and it made me angry to think that they didn’t like my mom anymore,
or Preacher either, because Daddy had stuck up for what he felt was right.

  Momma said, “The next house on the left.”

  Preacher pulled in the drive and parked. He asked if she’d like him to go with her but she shook her head and asked him to stay in the car with me. After she got out and limped toward the front door, I asked Preacher, “Was you in our house last night when we got home from church?”

  His arm uncoiled along the back of the bench seat and he smiled.

  I asked him, “Why did you turn the lights out?”

  He studied the house and Momma on the porch stoop, waiting for an answer as much as I was. At last, he said, “I don’t see any reason to sugar coat things with you since I don’t think your father did either, Eli. The world can be an ugly place, but only because of the people occupying it. And being a person isn’t what’s so bad, but the way we think sometimes, and the things we’re trained to be by those above and around us. Even me, training people to believe one way, just like most of these assholes, and the hard part for me to grasp is we both think we’re right.”

  He brushed his chin with his long fingers and stared at Momma a while longer. He said, “They burned my church to the ground shortly after you guys left, after the congregation fled with what your dad did to Fred. And nothing is going to fix it, nothing they say or do will give back what they’ve taken, not with Isaiah, not with the church or the little home I’d made in one of the back rooms, and not with the coloreds they scared off who had been painting it.”

  I swallowed hard and said, “They didn’t hurt them, did they?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. But probably. They train them not to run, train them to fear running’s repercussions. Anybody ever tries to make you afraid of something you take my advice and don’t trust them. They try to take your confidence first but they’re really after something else.”