by Terry Persun
“Not just now. Long before. About you lovin’ Negroes.”
“Negroes? Don’t know if I remember that.”
“I’m sure you do. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s done,” Bob said.
“You accept my apology?”
“I do.”
“They got some good singers here. They’re Negroes. You’ll like ‘em.”
“Maybe I will.” Half of Bob’s beer rested inside his mug and already his head felt foggy.
Hugh ordered two more beers, pushing his empty mug toward the bartender. He motioned for Bob to finish his. Two more were set on the bar. Hugh winked at Bob, “You get this one.”
Bob paid and took his first sip. The bartender had whisked the other mug from the bar.
Hugh pointed to the back of the tavern where Pone and his short friend strolled onto a small, makeshift stage. When Pone started playing his guitar, the room quieted down.
Bob recognized Jimmy Finch as he walked onto the short platform. He could hear the planks creek.
“A special treat tonight,” Jimmy yelled. All this week and next, we got Pone and Shorty. You won’t be sorry you come. And, hey, tell yer friends, cause they only got so many performances before they movin’ on.”
All the time Jimmy Finch spoke, Pone put in background harmonies and even picked a few notes to emphasize certain words. After Jimmy stepped down, Pone’s music became louder. Shorty cleared his throat and said, “First thing we do is thank the Lord for our talent and for bein’ able to share it wit you fine folks.”
A lot of the men sitting at tables shook their heads. Others nodded approval.
Pone and Shorty sang a gospel song ending in “We thank you Lord.” Then the music got livelier and more complex. Shorty dragged his banjo over his shoulder and it appeared almost as though it started to play itself before his fingers ever reached the strings. The crowd of men hollered and whistled as the Negroes sang Civil War songs.
Bob noticed how Pone and Shorty would play a few ruckus tunes or patriotic war songs, then drop into a serious, sad song about lost love or lost sons in the war and the whole crowd would drop into near tears right along with the song.
“Damned right,” one of the men would cry out, as if unable to contain himself. “Lost my two boys,” another yelled.
Right after a few sad songs, Pone and Shorty would raise the crowd’s spirits again, and get the men yelling. At the end of the night, their last song was to thank the Lord once again.
Bob had hardly noticed how late it was, how many beers he had, or how many he paid for.
Hugh patted him on the shoulder. “Them’s talented niggers,” he said, then looked up at Bob. “I mean Negroes.”
“What’s ‘at spose a mean?” Bob drawled. He had trouble standing as well.
“Nothin’,” Hugh said. “Here, I’ll help you back to the boardinghouse.” Hugh walked close beside Bob, shoving him whenever his stagger grew into a strong lean.
Bob hummed and sang under his breath as they headed to where his bunk waited. Hugh took Bob under the arm to help get him through the boardinghouse door, then dropped him into his cot just before Bob passed out.
CHAPTER 22
Bob woke in a cold sweat, alone in the room. The sun had been up for hours. He vaguely remembered crawling outside during the night to vomit behind the building. When he rolled onto his side, his head hurt. He gritted his teeth and rubbed the back of his neck. Forcing himself to sit up, Bob opened his eyes into a sliver, letting light seep in like flour through a sifter. As his eyes adjusted, he continued to open them bit by bit. All the while he rubbed his temples and neck. Tongue fat, mouth dry. He stood, moaned, but remained standing. He stumbled outside and went straight for the outhouse. After relieving himself, he walked into the restaurant and ordered a late breakfast, eating only half before getting up to leave. No one tried to talk with him. He set his money on the table and left.
The food and coffee helped to ease his sick stomach and clear his head. His pace picked up. The sounds he encountered outside – people talking, crows cawing – appeared to be louder than normal, but didn’t hurt his head as much as the clanking plates and silverware had a few minutes earlier.
He walked through the alley to get to the bakery.
Jasper was busy at the kneading table, his back to Bob.
When Bob’s foot knocked against the floorboards, Jasper swung around, gave Bob a look of disappointment, then turned back around and began working the dough over even harder, slapping and pushing at it.
Bob approached Jasper at a distance until he stood in the man’s peripheral vision. “I’m really sorry. I got sick.”
“You got drunk.” Jasper stopped whacking the dough and stepped right up to Bob. “I don’t give a shit if you want to get drunk as long as you do your job.” Back at the table again, Jasper slammed his fist into the dough. “I lost time and money this morning. There was no water from the river, no water from the pump. You know what that meant? Well, I’ll tell you. I had to get it myself. That put my mixing behind, which put my kneading behind, and my baking. Even after my first baked batch was done, you weren’t here.” He slammed his hand on the edge of the table. The crack made Bob jump. “I couldn’t leave to make deliveries.”
Bob knew what it all meant, but hadn’t realized how extensive the damage would be until he heard it laid out like that. He lowered his head and glanced away. “I was with my hurt friend. He needed a few drinks, and…”
“And nothin’. I’ll take my loss out of your pay. Do it again and don’t come back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now load up and see if you can sell anything at lunch.” Jasper shook his head.
Bob loaded his cart and headed for the mill, hocking and selling baked goods along the way. He arrived at the mill early. While straightening his goods and setting the cart in a level spot, he happened to look up and see Hugh talking with someone. Bob recognized the man, but shook his head, refusing the image. When Bob looked up again, the man was gone and Hugh was walking toward the cart. As he approached, Hugh grinned at Bob. “How’d you fair last night?”
“You know damned well how I faired. Poorly.” Bob said.
“Maybe we try again tonight? Get you used to it.”
“It’s not for me.”
“Don’t like beer? We could try whisky.” Hugh glanced at the muffins.
Bob picked three up and handed them to Hugh. Other men were headed over. Bob needed to sell a lot of bread and muffins, even if he had to buy them himself.
“Thank you,” Hugh said. “Didn’t see you this morning.”
“I got sick.”
Other men selected items and paid for them while Hugh and Bob talked. As the crowd dispersed Bob asked, “Who were you talking to?” He indicated where Hugh had stood with the other man.
Hugh turned to look behind him, then twisted back around. “Before you come?”
“Yes. I saw you with somebody. Who was it?”
“Just another mill worker. I don’t know all their names. Most of ‘em ignore me now I got my hand hurt.” He raised the specimen into the air. “Know him?”
Bob bit his lower lip then said, “You appear to have new friends is all. I’d be careful if I were you. You don’t know how trustworthy some men can be.”
“You mean like they make up a new name?”
“Like they make up stories about other people that aren’t true. Stories that sound true, but aren’t.” The veins in Bob’s temples pounded at a faster pace. He hoped Hugh wouldn’t notice.
“I’ll watch myself,” Hugh said.
“You do that,” Bob yelled as Hugh headed back to work.
Bob packed up and started toward town. He thought about who he’d seen Hugh talking with. It was Jacob. Bob figured Jacob would have been long gone, back with his family, in another town, anywhere but working at a mill in the same town Bob had landed. Maybe Jacob would be with Hillary. Bob closed his eyes. She would have had her baby by now.
Could it be black?
Bob needed to find out what Jacob had said to Hugh. The whole Negro thing for sure, but did Jacob really know the truth?
He should have pistol-whipped Jacob in the woods. He should have killed him. He had been mad enough.
Bob slipped back into thinking about his work. His head cleared more as the day wore on. He ate several walnut muffins that afternoon when his appetite returned. He promised Jasper over and over throughout the day that he wouldn’t get drunk again and he wouldn’t be late for work. Yet he hadn’t decided whether he would be working for long. He also feared for his life. A black passing for white could be lynched, beaten to death, or shot outright in the street.
“If you get drunk again,” Jasper was telling him, “make it Saturday night so you miss church instead of work.” By the end of the day Jasper’s mood mellowed. “I have a suspicion that God might forgive you easier than I will.”
Bob tried to smile politely at the joke, nodding in agreement.
“You’re acting nervous,” Jasper said. “Don’t worry. I’m okay now.”
“Still not feeling quite right.”
“I’ll clean up tonight. But be down here before daybreak.”
“I will.” Bob went to look for Hugh that night. The mill had its own set of barracks, several on either side. The closer to the flood line, the lower the level of worker. Bob didn’t have to go far to find Hugh’s barracks. Stepping up to the door, Bob smelled the odor of hard work and wood. A mixture of sweat and pulp, sawdust and bad breath. It was nothing like the sweet smell of biscuits. His nose curled before he walked inside. He asked the first man he saw where he might find Hugh. The man seated on an upturned log stood, towered over Bob. The man’s thin, farm-hand muscles didn’t look as though they could handle logging. They were meant for scything a field, stretched out, swinging in a cool autumn breeze, laying hay. The wrinkles around the man’s eyes were from squinting in the bright sunlight.
“Hugh ain’t here,” the man said. Even his voice sounded high-pitched rather than low and rough. “He’s probably drinkin’. That where he goes now he’s sufferin’. And I’ll tell ya, it ain’t helpin’ him none.”
“I should have known.” Bob thanked the man and headed for Jimmy Finch’s bar.
Once again, the rise of conversation filled the streets long before Bob walked inside. His hands shook. His jaw ached from being tight the whole way over. He stood staring at the doorway. If Hugh had wanted, he could have told everyone whatever story Jacob was spreading. Bob’s heart pounded. This could be his last night alive.
He had no idea what he’d say to Hugh. The subject of his life was broad and deep with faces and names and acts. There wasn’t enough time to explain it all. He stepped through the door and no one seemed to notice. Safe, so far.
He recognized Hugh at the bar. Bob half-expected Jacob to be sitting with him, but Hugh sat alone. His head bent over as though he were looking for something in his beer mug. As Bob crept up to the big man, he noticed Hugh’s tired eyes, drooping eyelids, and slack facial muscles. A visible depression lay over the man’s head and shoulders. Hugh’s hands lingered near his mug as if he were about to grab it, but had forgotten mid-act.
“Hugh?” Bob said.
Hugh turned slowly until he saw Bob. “You got nothin’ to worry over.”
“I’m not worried,” Bob lied.
“You so tense I could play you.” Hugh said.
“We need to talk a bit,” Bob said.
The crowd quieted. Pone and Shorty were coming on. Bob lowered his voice. “Let’s go Hugh.” Bob grabbed Hugh’s thick arm. Even with one arm, as strong as it was, Bob figured Hugh could out work him physically.
Hugh rose to his feet and followed Bob into the street. In the background Jimmy announced the Pone and Shorty act to loud howls, stomping feet, and pounding fists.
Outside, the night air soothed Bob’s muscles. The smell carried the scent of flowers and wood, of night air, crisp and clean.
Hugh followed a few steps behind Bob. “You got no worries,” he said again. “That man’s gone. He high-tailed it.”
Bob stopped and waited.
Hugh put his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I don’t care who you were. I might be a big lug, with a big head and big hands, but I’m a good judge of people. And you ain’t bad. You just ain’t like other folks.”
“Why’d he leave?”
Hugh held up his injury. “One less person means one less chance they’ll get rid of me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There a lot of reasons. That’s just one. I tell ‘im if he don’t high-tail it, I’m goin’ to hurt ‘im. Maybe there be an accident one day.” Hugh shook his head. “Suppose he believed me.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s walk to the edge of town. You owe me a story now. And I suspect it’s a good one.” Hugh winked and held his gaze for a long time.
Bob had no idea where to begin or end his story. He had no idea which parts to leave in and which to skip over. What was worse, though, was that he couldn’t account to the accuracy of his own memory any longer.
Hugh, apparently impatient with the silence, said, “Jacob said he stole your money.”
“He did.”
“He said you had the chance to kill ‘im, but you didn’t.”
Bob nodded. Let the story make its own way out, then, he thought.
Hugh said, “I told ‘im you was going to finish the job, but I stop you. He didn’t believe me. Said you too coward. Jacob said when you first come into camp you act like a Negro. You act that way so much the men started believing it. They needed the help. Some didn’t care and some did. But Jacob, he said he didn’t want no Negro takin’ full pay. He said it was his duty to take some of it back.” Hugh walked with Bob a little farther. They neared the edge of town. “He said the name Leon is what you used then, but he was sure you the same man.”
Bob waited. He walked. He purged his own memories, thoughts, beliefs. What did it matter now? What would it mean? He could move into the black section of town. He could do odd jobs. Hell, he could sing alongside Pone and Shorty. He knew he could do that.
“So, am I right so far?” Hugh had given his information freely and openly.
Bob knew it was his turn to speak. “The facts might be close,” he said. “It’s the why’s that aren’t.”
“Jacob didn’t offer none.”
“I know.” Bob thought back and decided he didn’t need to tell the whole story. Somehow that story didn’t fit him any more. The realization freed him for the moment. “I never told them anything about myself, but my name. They assumed I was Italian, not Negro. Jacob brought that on later. I was too scared, too quiet, and maybe even too stupid to try to change their ideas. Once I let it go, it was done. I didn’t know their suspicions or I would have come clean.”
“The dilemma of the quiet man.”
“You sound like you’re familiar.”
“Where did you learn to read and talk all educated?”
“It seems like a long time ago. I hardly remember. But I know now that reading kept me alive and safe. It gave me a new identity.”
The two men turned around to walk back into town.
“You can keep your identity for all I care. I don’t need to know no more,” Hugh said.
“Why?”
“Told you. I’m a good judge of character. If not, my whole life would change. Look, Bob, we’re all alone in this world and we all make up what doesn’t suit us. Every story I hear has got as much untruth as truth when it comes to facts: how hard a worker one man is, how good a lover another claims to be. None of the stories are true all through. Facts bend too easily around a man’s tongue. But there’s one thing for sure and that’s that once they bend they’re real. Our stories change according to how we tell them.”
Bob knew Hugh was talking about his own story as well. They walked on. “He tell anyone else?”
“He tried, but nobody believed it or
cared. He a mouthy man. Nobody listen. I didn’t except I tried it out on you.”
“So now what?”
“You ain’t changed in my eyes. I’m just sorry about some of the things I said to you, not knowing what you are.”
“What I am?”
“Didn’t mean it like that,” Hugh said. “I never enslaved no one.”
“Maybe not.”
“Everyone’s free now.”
“No one’s free unless they’re set free. There are plenty of slaves. Besides, I see how whites live. I see that blacks, most of them, don’t live the same. The Indian’s have been shoved out of the way too.”
“It takes time. It could of been the other way around. I know that don’t make it right. But there’s Negroes all over who live like white men. It can be done.”
“If people knew, how would they treat me?”
Hugh lowered his head. Some would treat you the same. Some different. Like Jacob. He’s a southern boy in his heart.”
“They’re not just Southern. What about the men who don’t want to sit with a Negro at a table, but will listen to him perform on stage? Pone and Shorty, you know where they live? In a shed. Two grown men living in a shed. That bar’s filled every night and I’ll bet they get very little pay for their time.”
“Don’t get angry with me. I see the same thing every day. It didn’t matter when I was whole and able to work. I admit that. But now I see it clear. They look you up and down searchin’ for a reason to treat you different. To put you in a hole and then leave you there. I’m big, so I got big pay and the hardest work. Now, I’m not the same. I work next to skinny farm boys and Civil War amputees. My pay’s cut in half.” Hugh kicked the dirt in the street, turned his head, then looked Bob squarely in the face. “Them mansions still being built, but ain’t a one of us is seein’ any of that money. We all slaves, God dammit.”
Bob shook his head. “I’ve seen what people can do to each other. I thought being white would change that, but it doesn’t. It only changes the type of pain one man puts on another. It only changes the extent to which they do it.”