When silence came afterward, it was total; all the little sounds of the woods had hushed. Only a car horn sounded off in the city somewhere, ineffectually.
“You got you two pretty test shots, Mr. Wynn,” Beau said; the other Negroes made pleased, assenting sounds: the success of a white man they worked for reflected on them.
Son smiled, thanking them. They were good boys, he thought. He and Mr. Ryder went toward the blast, overhung by black smoke. Only then did it begin to drift toward them, slowly, on the windless day. Phew, Son thought as it touched him, it even smelled black. His sinuses reacted immediately, opened and were filled.
The stumps, cleanly lifted, lay broken open, easy to remove. Mr. Ryder complimented him too. Son put his hands in his pockets and could not stop grinning. When he spoke, his pleasure spread into laughter; he moved his foot around in the evenly spread dirt and said, “Hell, is this what those birds been getting twenty-five dollars a day to do?”
“You go on a couple more, you’ll have earned it,” Mr. Ryder said. He had a trip to make, dynamite to deliver over into Arkansas. He left saying, he didn’t think Son needed help anyway.
The rest of the morning and after lunch, Son and the Negroes continued the work, though after each blast, he found he waited longer and longer to return and reload for another. But no matter how long he waited—no matter how far away the smoke had drifted—far enough to look like rain clouds overhead—the fumes remained: as potent and stinging as if manure mixed into the broken-open ground were steaming up at him; like being under water, unable to push through to the surface and breathe. He had meant to go on all day until sundown. By one o’clock he knew he could not go any longer. At two, having pushed himself that far, he suddenly sat down in the woods, pushed his hat back and said, “Jesus Christ.”
Behind him, the Negroes were already sitting, having said nothing for a long time; now one answered, “Amen.”
Son swung on his buttocks as if on a swivel, too tired to move any limb individually, and saw the extent of the Negroes’ tiredness and was glad, realizing his was not a lack in himself; as good shape as he was in, the Negroes were in better. “You boys aren’t tired, are you?” he said. He took out cigarettes and tossed them a package.
“Yes suh. I thank you,” Woodrow said. He caught the package and divided the cigarettes.
“Hell,” Son said. “I thought we was just getting started good. But if you boys going to give out on me, I guess we’ll have to quit.”
It being agreed upon, no one moved, held still by their own weight and the mugginess of the hot afternoon.
But he’d known a lot of hotter, muggier ones, Son thought, all of July and August. He wondered what made his head ache so it drooped toward his bent knee. At last, they rose and picked up what they could carry home and, reaching the car, felt alien to the peaceful mid-afternoon scene, as if the erupting earth should have changed that too, the street car following its snail-like track, a black and white dog lifting its leg against the front tire of Son’s car, people passing, intent on themselves.
Rolling down the car window, Son thought, Damn if he didn’t smell as bad as they did. No one spoke as he drove toward the car stop the Negroes wanted. Wind dried their sweat and smoke made curlicues through the car. Occasionally they smelled flowers, passing briefly fully blossoming lilac, wisteria, jonquils. But suddenly Son felt pervaded by that other smell, smoky, burning, black, rushing up against him like something blind. “Whew,” he said, more to himself than to the others, “that stuff give me the worse damn headache I ever had.”
“It sho do,” Beau said, beside him.
“You won’t get over with it soon either,” Woodrow said. He sat on the back seat with James.
Son had not thought of Negroes getting a headache. At the car stop, he gave Beau a dollar, told him to get two bottles of aspirin in the store next to it. When Beau came back, Son said, “That going to hold you boys?”
“We thank you, Cap’n,” Beau said.
Driving away, Son looked back and saw the Negroes already bent over their bottle. He opened his own and popped pills into his mouth quick as peanuts. He did not know how many aspirin he could take safely at once and, right now, did not care. In the middle of the night, he woke, nauseated, his head still throbbing and knew what Mr. Ryder had told him was true: nothing helped.
Day after day the mugginess continued, with June on them now, and heat wavered over the day, making it seem always as if they looked through something porous, like gauze.
The second morning, entering the woods, they had heard the mourning dove, which also heard them. No sooner had they arranged their tools, talking to one another, than it quit. The four of them, the original ones, were aware of its absence as long as the work continued. Son said once, “We sho scared the squeaker out of that bird,” and Woodrow said, “Sho did,” and the others showed by a darker look of their faces their contemplation of it. Sometimes after the cacophonous, loud, harsh sounds of their day, they unconsciously listened for the bird, knowing, with reason, it was not there, because neither were the woods. Flat, yellow-looking acres of ground had emerged to bake and dry, fallow; the little clumps of trees left seemed like people huddled together, astonished. Now, all day long tractors, their roar as monotonous and persistent as the buzz of some giant mosquito, graded and levelled, back and forth; the stumps were hauled away and burned in great piles on the far edges of the work, adding heat where it was not wanted and smoke to the already shimmering look of the day. Each day they arrived before the sun was out and each day Son thought they would work on a little longer, but they never did. Half a day was all a man could take. Every morning they had faced a new headache; yet when the work was over, when he was driving in a stream of traffic toward town, Son was sorry. He missed the Negroes. The last morning, Woodrow had said, “You got any more work around here, Mr. Wynn, we be here,” and Son had said, “I’ll be seeing you boys,” and had driven off, thinking it was the first piece of information any of them had offered; they had spoken only when spoken to.
At the year’s end his commission was far larger than the first one. Again, he bought stock in his company and would have had enough to open a little savings account, not much but something against a rainy day, except that Cally had a gall bladder operation. She had asked for the money and he had refused. She went ahead with the operation and the bills, presented, had to be paid. Months later, still weak, she leaned on an old mop to walk about the house, its sparse, tangled strands going ahead of her over the floor like drowned hair. To partly repay Son, Cally accepted the catering for a large reception in honor of a candidate for mayor, though the family tried to dissuade her. For days she worked, and Lillian and Cecilia helped when they could. On the final day, a Saturday, even the boarder, Kate, stuffed eggs and trimmed bread crusts while Cally iced cakes. Cally was to attend the reception and supervise the food; Lillian, eager to help, drove her there. All the way, Cally sat forward on the seat, more resplendent than usual, her mother’s antique garnet earrings hanging like a tiny drop of blood from either ear. Rouge the same color, rubbed into a spot on each cheek, was overlaid with corn starch. Lillian hoped some would blow off before Cally arrived, hoped she did not look as obviously invited somewhere. Parking, she said, “Mammy, how do we tell from the kitchen when the platters are empty?”
“Girl, I didn’t get this dressed up to stay in the kitchen,” Cally said. “I hired me some waiters a long time ago.”
“Hired waiters?” Lillian said. “How can you make any money if you got to pay waiters.”
“Shoot, the more I charge these rich folks the better they’ll think the food is,” Cally said. “I’ll clear close to five hundred dollars.” She stood by the table all evening, only sometimes leaning slightly forward and then back as if she had forgotten the mop were not there. Lillian stood opposite and people spoke to them pleasantly, complimenting the food. One man returned repeatedly, talking to Lillian, and finding, to his relief, the food was of no more intere
st to her than to him, discussed the weather, his afternoon’s bridge game and the political campaign. Lillian knew nothing of politics and was interested in the night’s guest only because his name appeared frequently in the society columns to which she was addicted. But knowing enough to mouth clichés, she said she thought the candidate was honest and would do a lot for the city.
The man said, “Young lady, we need you down at campaign headquarters. Come on down to the Andrew Johnson and say I sent you.” He handed her a business card; glancing at it, Lillian tried to show no emotion. A. G. Singer, Cotton Broker, was a sign she had seen often across a warehouse that stretched an entire block on First Street.
“I drop in headquarters every afternoon about five. Teatime, you know,” Mr. Singer said, with a wink. He had a handsome face gone soft and was heavy but carried the weight awkwardly as if it were a recent acquisition; Lillian judged him to be about fifty. Saying she would try to come, she was about to summon her most engaging smile but glanced up and saw she did not need to. Bending closer than necessary to hear, he said, “What is your name?”
“Lillian,” she said, and reluctantly, “Wynn.”
On Monday, presenting the card, Lillian did not understand she was one in a long line of young women who had done so, and, misinterpreting the looks of the other women, felt ill at ease about her clothes. The young women of inferior background A. G. sent were tolerated by the other women because he contributed largely to the campaign. Like those before her, Lillian was assigned a telephone to answer and envelopes to address. The women did not speak to her again except about the work at hand, and she went to lunch alone. All day, her eyes seemingly on her work, Lillian studied their mannerisms and every detail of their clothes. By five, when A. G. Singer arrived, she had convinced herself he was a ridiculous old fool. But as soon as he walked comfortably into the room full of people to whom she so aspired, Lillian forgave him. He gave her a drink, drew her into the group, and several of the women managed to smile; she was not, they would say later, as bad as the others. After several drinks, A. G. offered to drive Lillian home. They went into the hall and at the elevator he said, “Say, you know what? I left my wallet back in my room. We’ll just have to run up and get it.”
“Your room,” she said. “Do you live here?”
“I keep a room here just for convenience. I’m divorced and if I’m downtown late there’s no reason to drive way out to my house.” When they had gone into the room, he said, “Say, you know what? I’ve got a bottle of the best whisky you can buy. Why don’t we have a stirrup cup right here.”
He had telephoned for ice almost before Lillian could answer. She sat down. Removing his coat, he went about the room springing lightly on the balls of his feet, humming and straightening things. Passing close, he stopped and cupped his hand beneath her chin, “Oh, you’re a pretty little thing, you are, you are,” he said. She tried to smile and stood up in relief when the bellboy knocked. Afterward, holding the drink he fixed, she moved about the room restlessly and inevitably let him put his arms about her. Trembling, he said, “Oh darling, Oh darling!” over and over until it was all Lillian could do not to say, Hush! When they had made love, she said she had to go home. He jumped out of bed jubilantly. To escape him, she went into the bathroom. He had wanted to zip, hook, button everything. That night, Lillian lay awake remembering him bouncing about the room or hovering close as a pesky fly. She would have to take him as he was or leave him. Considering what she had and what he had to offer, she made her decision.
Lillian had not had to go home that night. Full of confidence after the golf course job, Son had announced he was going to get in that little car and go: find work; things were slowing down. Money was tight and it looked like it was going to get a lot tighter before it got any looser. If he was going to make it, he had to hustle. He had left that Monday saying not to expect him again before Friday. Lillian returned every day to campaign headquarters and every afternoon to A. G.’s room. It was Thursday before he said, “Oh darling, oh darling, if only we could stay together all night.” Admitting her husband was out of town, Lillian stayed. Friday morning, A. G. said he would not be able to see her that afternoon: he needed a little rest. Lillian said it was all right. She had to go home and wash her hair. Gradually the ladies included Lillian in their lunches and in answer to questions, she made vague reference to the distant Arkansas town from which she had come, clearly implying Delton was a place she had come only recently to know.
Son set out that Monday to see Will Carrothers, an engineer repairing levees along the St. Francis River. A minimum of dynamite was used in levee work and Son had decided his future lay in convincing contractors they ought to use more. His experience was enough that he had begun to develop theories about ways to move dirt and clear land that would be easier and quicker. It seemed logical that if he were on the spot, looking at a job with a man while he explained it, he had a lot better chance of convincing the man of what he was saying, of selling him dynamite to do the job.
That was when Son packed his grip, got in his car, and set out on the journey that would last thirty years.
Leaving town before dawn, he crossed into Arkansas and was headed down the one straight road that was West Delton when daylight came. From dusty sideroads a few Negroes emerged on their way to fields and in one cafe with the lights on, a waitress looked out. He could sure stand another cup of coffee, Son thought, and drove on by at a faster rate of speed. He hadn’t even taken time to go to the bathroom this morning. He had a place to go and had to get there. He held his speed for some time, the road ahead always empty; but the good time he made, he lost as the road became crowded with mule-drawn wagons and rickety trucks carrying fieldhands to the fields, white and colored, the women either thick-bodied or scarecrow-thin, wearing wide, frayed straw hats and the men handkerchiefs bound about their heads. Son had to brake continually as they pulled onto the road; no slow conveyance ever waited for him to pass first. He trailed them for hours, it seemed, while the fieldhands, jogging ahead, stared back at him fixedly, without expression.
On through several little towns just coming awake he crawled and at last was free; he sped on with nothing on either side but wild grass and trees. It was so hot by early morning that if it got hotter the rest of the day, Son never noticed, he was already so hot. Wind whipping past was arid and continually he sat forward to unstick himself from the seat. Relief came only when trees grew close over the road, casting filigreed shade. It would seem to have rained when cool came on suddenly; even the tires had a different sound after the baked road. Passing Marion, he went on into Marked Tree and had expected a little more, but as far as he could see, there wasn’t a thing in the world going on in Marked Tree. He had lunch in a good cafe, Grandma’s; for thirty-five cents a plate of vegetables, corn bread and iced tea; you couldn’t beat it for the money. Leaving town, he left the main road and drove for some time in back country over a road that was not called one on a map. It petered out to become two tracks through a cotton field and he thought he must be lost. He saw a Negro standing in a wagon coming toward him, whipping on a mule, and wondered how they would pass when the Negro drew off into a field and stopped. Looking surprised, he took off his hat as Son got out of his car and came toward him. “Uncle,” Son said, “I’m trying to get out yonder to where the work’s going on on the levee. How the hell am I going to do it?”
“This here’s the levee road,” the Negro said. “You going out to Mister Will’s job?”
“That’s right,” Son said.
“He out there. Keep on like you going. You be there in a half hour.”
Son wiped his head with a handkerchief already soaked with perspiration, muddy with dust from his face. “Pheww,” he said. For as far as even the Negro standing in the wagon could see there was nothing but flat cotton fields, not even the rows visible, like a solid dark green canvas. The sunbaked sky seemed yellow, the sun a hole in it; heat fit close like a lid. Sweat stood in blisters on the Negro�
�s face and shone in his hair. Son got back in the car and waved. “Much obliged,” he said and as he started the car, the Negro put on his hat.
Driving away, Son looked back apprehensively at the wagon disappearing in their mingled dust. If anything happened to his little old Ford, if anything happened to him, it seemed he’d be out here till they came picking in the fall. There was nothing out here, only silence and the fields where nothing moved.
What in the distance appeared to be clouds took shape gradually as the levee itself. When he came to it, his road ended and another went in either direction; which way should he go? Passing a hand over the yellow grime on his face, he left finger tracks and dust settled like fine rain as he sat, wondering. He took the direction away from the highway he had left some time ago, searching now for what Red had said he would find: some kind of track over the levee. He passed what he thought was a cow path but stopped and backed up; he had come a mile and was about to run out of levee. Cursing, he gunned the car, giving it all it had. The tires spun on the hard road and the car shot ahead; as he wheeled onto the new path, the car’s rear swung wildly. Gunning it again and again, he fought his way up, thinking he would not make it; then he spun the wheels once more and was on top of the levee, going in the direction he had chosen, wondering who the hell had had the nerve to make the road. Machinery had not cut it; it had been made by the determination of people driving the same place until they had worn the two ruts he now followed. He ate dust but would suffocate with the windows up. Summoning saliva to wash the dust down, he thought, it even tasted yellow. Fine as flour it sifted over the car and slid from the fenders. A wasp buzzed about his head and threw itself against the windshield, seeking escape, but he kept his eyes on the road, his hands gripping the wheel, his foot steady on the gas, knowing any deviation from the ruts would send the light car hurtling down the embankment, on the one side into the silent green fields and on the other into high grass that led away into a mass of tree tops. Beyond them was where he wanted to go. His tires crunching rocks cast them steadily with sharp clicks against the underside of the car. Ahead he saw the place to descend and gently applied brakes. When he stopped, the silence was as if a battle had ended. Dust showered him like fireworks and lay on the windshield so thick he had to turn on the wipers. Behind him the sun was going down where smoke curled up from town. Below, birds swung on tall weeds making various cries, cheeps, twitters, squeaks. Every bug he had ever heard made its own sound in the grass, magnified by the silence, until it seemed the insects were all in the car, even in him, the way when he heard a band, the bass drum seemed to be the beat of his own heart, a thousand times louder. Now with a buzz, final and loud, the wasp flew away. He looked back once at the long way he had come, realizing he would have to retrace it to find a place to sleep tonight. Already tired, he put his foot to the gas and turned the car down the levee bank.
Old Powder Man Page 11