by Terry Persun
Hugh’s eyes turned up as though he were addressing someone in the sky. When he spoke, his calm voice stuttered slightly. He spoke for more than just himself. “I just want to be able to live this life out to its end. Have a good job and a place to stay.”
“I just want to be left alone.” Bob started toward the alley that led to the back of the boarding house. “I don’t like the way people treat each other. I just want to be away from them.”
“Why don’t you change it then?” Hugh stood in the street. “You’re smart. You could write for the papers. You could talk to people. Make ‘em understand it ain’t right to treat everybody bad just ‘cause you can get away with it.”
“They won’t listen.”
“Dammit, Bob, they wouldn’t listen to a little kid. They might not listen as well to an ex-slave. But you’re a man now. You’re a smart white man. You can make a difference.”
“Why are you saying this?”
Hugh held up his hand. “I want equal pay. I give my hand to this business. We gotta start treating each other better.”
“It’s for you, then.” Bob left Hugh in the street.
“It’s for all of us. You think about it.”
Bob lifted his hand and let it drop next to him, a farewell gesture. He’d heard enough. He’d said enough. Perhaps too much. He went into his room and curled up on his cot. As a boy, he’d never slept on a cot. Here, the room was half filled with transient men who came to town for a quick buck before moving on, and half filled with men too cheap or too poor to find a more hospitable place to stay. Bob fit neither category. He wondered then why he stayed there. Familiar? To help feel alienated? Assure that he wouldn’t have to get to know anyone? That he could be left alone as he had told Hugh he wanted? Was that how he wanted to live out his life?
Bob rolled into the wall. How long could he hide from himself? He clasped his hands over his ears to keep out his own questions. He consciously tried to relax and bring on sleep, but throughout the night was awakened by the groans of dreaming men or the distinct sound of someone pissing in the corner. During his interrupted sleep, Bob dreamed of a better life for himself, and by morning was thinking differently. Why couldn’t he change the way he lived? Why couldn’t he help others? He jumped from bed and got ready to go to breakfast before getting water for Jasper’s day of baking.
He was the first person in the restaurant. He could smell coffee. A stout woman he’d never seen before appeared to take his order and in less than five minutes brought it out to him. Bob ate and left money on the table. Daylight already brightened the other side of the hills, a glow hovering above the tree line and falling over the ridge. In less than a half hour, the tip of the sun would be screaming morning’s call.
Bob rushed to fill the water buckets. He readied the first batch of flour, sifting it into a giant bowl.
Jasper whistled when he came in. “Don’t think this makes up for your being late.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
“Good. Thank you just the same.” He grabbed an apron and tied it around his waist. “You could start a fire in the oven while I’m mixin’ things up here.”
“Yes, sir.” Bob headed for the wood pile. His mind raced with thoughts and questions. He felt his options were broad and he needed to narrow them.
If he really could do anything he wished, what did he wish? Bob lifted his own hands and pulled them close to his face. There were creases cut deep into them, but the roughness had been worn away.
“Ain’t never seen you own hands afore?” Pone leaned against the shed door, a corn cob pipe glowing as he sucked air through the stem.
Bob walked toward Pone. “Tell me something.”
“Got plenty to tell. Whatcha wanna know?”
Bob’s pulse quickened. He had second thoughts about talking with Pone. But he spit out the words anyway. “Am I black or white, Italian or Irish?”
Pone pulled the pipe from his mouth. The noise from the street slipped down between the buildings. The air stood still, and the sunlight burst into the alley. He looked Bob up and down. “Turn around.”
Bob turned.
“Now walk away, then back.”
Bob did as he was told.
“Bend over then stand straight,” Pone said as he pushed his little finger into the pipe bowl and re-lit the tobacco.
Bob bent over and straightened.
“Now jump up and down,” Pone said.
Bob’s seriousness ended. He laughed and Pone laughed. “Damn you,” he said.
Pone pulled on his pipe, a wet sucking sound came with the brightening embers.
“So, what do you think?”
“Don’t know.” Pone tapped his pipe on his boot and reached into his pocket for more tobacco. “They’s so many different people in towns like this, I juss can’t tell one man from another. Unless you talk like a foreigner, I don’t know where the hell you comes from.”
“What if I told you I was Negro?”
Pone laughed. I seen you walk in the front door of Finch’s without even droppin’ you eyes for a second. I seen you grab a white man by the arm and he follow you outside. If you a Negro like I knowed Negroes to be, then you a strange and dangerous one for sure.”
Bob looked at the backs of his hands then turned them over.
“You had one bad dream lass night mister. You waked up all confused.” Pone packed tobacco with his little finger.
Bob loaded his arms with wood.
Pone sucked on his pipe.
CHAPTER 23
Regardless how much rain fell or how high the river rose, nothing could lower Bob’s positive attitude. Business for Jasper boomed. Bob took to delivering bread in the late afternoon – fresh and warm from the oven – to the mansions along Third Street. Walking the street that close to the great Susquahanna, river of dreams, he could hear her singing. Bob knew that river sound, different than the sounds of the creek, more powerful, more determined, but still the same, still water.
He imagined all the creeks feeding the Susquahanna. He remembered how they rose during the thaw and rain, how they licked at the stacked logs until they lifted them enough to dislodge one and the rest came rolling into place, rushing toward the river. And if the water took its time, the woodhicks unleashed the logs into the creeks.
But the river, strong and true, could handle the backbreaking abundance of hemlock and pine. All the logs did was push the water higher, make the river stronger.
Bob found that he could talk with the help as well as the master and lady of the houses he delivered to. He found that he could look any of them in the eye and speak as though he were their brother. Just like interviewing had been, the more often he spoke with the people he delivered to, the easier conversation rolled from his tongue.
Each night he read. There was a library in Williamsport, and he signed out one book after another. He read poetry and fiction and philosophy, science and politics. Several nights a week, he sat at Jimmy Finch’s and nursed a beer along with Hugh, whose hand was healing slowly.
They talked about logging and books. Bob urged Hugh to read more, telling him it was the true path to freedom. He also told Hugh that reading would clean up his English, which Hugh decided wasn’t a bad idea.
“If I speak better, I could work different,” Hugh said.
Pone and Shorty had passed through and Finch was hosting three more Negro musicians. One night, while talking with Bob and Hugh at the bar, Jimmy Finch told the men, “The sound those black folk make just goes straight to a man’s soul. We’re all suffering, but not like them. They’re suffering for more reasons than I like to think. And they can sing it. Hell, we all come from somewhere else. We all miss our homes. We’ve all been touched by pain and war. But them,” he pointed to the stage, “they can bring those feelings home.”
Later that evening, walking to the boarding house, Hugh said, “What do you think about what Jimmy said tonight?”
“About the singing?”
“And about
the pain?”
“He’s probably right.”
“You feel that pain again when you hear the songs?”
“Sometimes,” Bob said, staring into the dark.
“I’m sorry,” Hugh said.
“Do you feel it?”
“More than you might know.”
“I wish that it wasn’t true for you,” Bob said.
“White men treat you pretty bad?”
Bob thought for a moment. “Black or white, I’ve been treated about the same.”
After walking a short distance in silence, brushing away the occasional mosquito, Hugh said, “Jimmy Finch should know about a Negro’s pain.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s been part of the underground railroad all his life. I wonder what he thinks now that things have changed? I wonder if he feels relief or lost purpose?”
“How do you know about Jimmy?”
“Things like that get around. Haven’t you ever wondered why all his acts are Negroes?” Hugh said.
“They’re cheap pay for good talent,” Bob said. “And what about those two living in the shed in the alley behind the bakery? There’s no heart in that.”
“Pone and Shorty had their whole family in town and they all stayed at Jimmy’s except those two old coots. I hear they wanted some peace.”
“Well, well. I never thought. I guess I figured it brought in money and that was that.”
“Some folks won’t go there ‘cause of who he brings in and lets sleep in his home.”
“I can only imagine.” Bob glanced at Hugh. The moonlight fell into the dusty street in blotches, blocked by clouds. “Isn’t Jimmy a little young to be part of the railroad?”
“He grew up with it. His Pa and Ma worked to save slaves all the time he was growin’ up. He’s a good man.”
Bob slapped Hugh on the shoulder. It was still difficult for him to do that without feeling at least a twitch in his frame, wondering whether it wasn’t just too familiar. “Tomorrow we meet at the library.”
“You gonna make me an honest man, ain’t you?”
Bob waved and walked down the alley. Before entering through the back entrance, he used the out building. On his slow stride back, he heard a scraping sound, like a boot against the dirt. He swung around and advanced right into an oncoming fist. He felt the blow of a stick as well. Then two more punches, one squarely on the back of his skull. He rolled into a ball, but as soon as he hit the ground, he was out.
He dreamed it was dark. He stood alone, not because he wished to, but because no one wanted to stand with him. He tried to see into the dark, straining his eyes until even darker shadows began to appear. This frightened him even more. He whipped around and attempted to find a familiar shape. His head twisted back and forth. There were many shadows overlapping. Then the shadows began to move as though they didn’t want to be recognized. So Bob picked one out and tried to follow its movements, but the shadow blurred.
Bob waited. He had no choice. The sun would soon rise. He could feel it. He could hear the river. When he stopped worrying, the shadows stopped moving about. One at a time they faded and the darkness lightened. Color came into the dream. The color of sunrise and sunset. He watched the horizon. It looked familiar. When he realized where he was, he looked down at Big Leon only he wasn’t dead. He was just lying down. He winked. Laughter came from behind. When Bob turned, Fred Carpenter stood over him, pointing and laughing. Big Leon sat up. Fred Carpenter held out his hand and helped Big Leon get to his feet. They both laughed, leaning back until they almost tipped over and bending forward until their chins almost touched their knees. Bob looked from one to the other. He held the gun. It went off on its own, into the ground. Dirt leaped into the air. The color on the horizon got splattered with mud. Bob’s heart raced. He heard voices, opened his eyes, and saw Hugh standing over him. “The gun,” Bob said.
“They didn’t have one,” Hugh said. “Lucky for you.”
“What happened?” Bob felt sharp pain in his side and all down his neck to the middle of his back. “Where am I?”
“You got jumped. That’s what. And now you’re here. The back of Jimmy Finch’s. Where he lives.”
Bob grabbed his head. “Who was it?”
“Don’t know for sure. I heard an odd thumping that didn’t quit. Bein’ around wood and people, you get used to the sound wood hitting flesh makes. You’re not supposed to hear that sound come from an alley in town.” Hugh laughed. “I ran after that sound and whoever it was run off faster than I could chase them. You were all crumpled on the ground so I pick you up and bring you here. It’s the only place I know was open.”
“That was the kindest thing anyone has done for me.”
“You been good for me, my friend.” Hugh put a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Rest. I’ll be back after work.” Hugh left the room.
Bob saw curtains on the window, a dresser against a wall. Candles had been lighted and placed around the room. There also stood a small stand next to the bed. A bed. He was lying in a real bed. He had never done that before. He stretched his arms out to his sides. His ribs had been bandaged and his arms were sore. He rolled his head to the side. A pillow, too. The room smelled fresh and clean. There was also the scent of flowers, but he couldn’t see any in the room. On the stand next to the bed was a book lying on a small white piece of cloth with holes in it. But not just holes as if worn through, but a pattern of holes, a star-like pattern or a snowflake pattern. Bob picked up the book. He read the title: “The Spy,,” by James Fenimore Cooper. He opened to the first page. His head hurt, but it was a physical pain, outside his head, not inside like when he had gotten drunk. He could read with this kind of pain.
In a short while, the glow of sunlight came through the window, lightening the curtain and the room. He stared, the book folded over his index finger and held close to his chest.
A slight knock came and the door opened. “You’re awake.” The woman appeared to be around Jimmy Finch’s age and had the same dusted blond hair and straight, prominent nose. She wore a gingham dress and walked smoothly and elegantly across the floor. She blew out each candle.
Eyeing the book, she said, “You shouldn’t try to read in such little light.” She opened the curtains and let in the morning. She opened the window, too. Clean, fresh air burst into the room. “How are you feeling?”
Bob widened his eyes. “I’m—“
“Your head must hurt. There’s a huge knot back there. At least there was when they brought you in.”
“I’m better,” Bob managed to say.
The woman stepped near Bob.
“I’m Jenny Finch, Jimmy’s sister. I know, Jimmy and Jenny. I’ve heard all the rhymes.” She winked and pulled the edge of the blanket tight near his shoulder. “There’s a Jerry and a Josh. Jimmy got the best of the deal, being first. The rest of us just repeats.” She laughed a quiet, high-pitched laugh almost like a giggle only lasting a bit longer.
Bob couldn’t help laughing with her.
“So, you’re better? You want a little breakfast?”
Bob wasn’t hungry at the moment, but said yes, just so Jenny wouldn’t leave and not return.
“Good. I didn’t want to bring it if you weren’t awake yet.” She pointed to a chair that Bob hadn’t noticed before. “Your friend leave?”
“I suppose he went to work.”
“You suppose?” She laughed again. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that. He sat here all night Jimmy said. I’m not sure he’s going to get much done.”
That reminded Bob. “Jasper,” he said and tried to sit up. The blanket fell to his waist and he realized he was naked. “Oh. Who?”
“Not me, I can tell you that,” she said with a sly grin and a slight flush of her face.
Bob smiled. She was the best humored woman he had ever met.
“If you mean Jasper Snipe.” She stopped. “Oh, that’s where I’ve seen you.” She waved her finger at him. Then she placed her hand on his b
are shoulder and pushed him back. “You lie down. I’ll ask someone to let Jasper know. Now, let me get your breakfast. You drink coffee I suppose,” she said with a wink.
Bob nodded. He pulled the blanket up to his chest and watched her leave As the door clicked, he relaxed, realizing that his entire body had tensed up when she came into the room.
He stared out the window a little while longer, then began to read again. He smelled breakfast cooking long before it arrived. Jenny stepped into the room with a tray balanced on her hand. “Sit up,” she said.
Bob slid up so that his back leaned against the headboard, a finely whittled set of hemlock planks. He couldn’t see the exact design, but could feel it imprinting on his back.
Jenny set the tray on his lap. “You don’t look all that comfortable.” She pulled on the pillow. “Lean forward.”
He leaned and she stuffed the pillow behind his back. “There.” She lightly patted the pillow so close to his bare skin that he could feel the warmth of her hand, then she backed away.
Bob leaned against the cool cotton. “That feels good.” He picked up his fork. “Thank you for breakfast.” He didn’t want her to think he was ungrateful, so he lifted a forkful of egg into his mouth. As his elbow rose, he felt the muscles pull in his rib cage and winced.
She walked over to the window. She stood an average womanly height. Had an average build, too. She wasn’t skinny and wasn’t healthy, but somewhere between. She did move nicely under her dress, graceful and strong. And her breasts, Bob noticed, appeared to be firm.
While she walked around the room, he ate and watched her. Finally, she sat in the chair where Hugh had waited throughout the night.
“You haven’t been in town very long, have you?” She sat straight, but relaxed, alert.
“A few months.”
With a curious look on her face, she asked, “Where’d you come from?”
“The hills mostly. I spent some time as a wood hick and mill worker downriver. Built some homes down there, loaded wagons and trains.”
“How’d you come by working for Jasper?” She leaned forward, reached up with one hand, and played with the ends of her hair as they talked.