by Ann Petry
A man turned into The Last Chance, a man who shambled, shuffled when he walked, shapeless felt hat pale redorange under the neon sign. Weak Knees. He stood still in front of the door, looking up and down the street. Powther thought, He knows there’s something wrong, he senses it, smells it, like an animal recognizes the presence of danger without knowing what it is. “Weak made ’em. He’s the cook in Bill’s place”—doughnuts, wonderful texture, sweet fragrant flavorsomeness sticking in his throat—
Weak Knees went in The Last Chance. Another car went by. This one going slowly, not the sudden flashing brilliance, there one moment and gone the next, this one slowmoving, so that he saw the back of the Captain’s head, saw each reddish hair, the cleanlooking neck, thought he must have had a haircut in New York, before he came up yesterday; saw the back of the Madam’s head, her shoulders straight, held stiffly under the tan-colored raincoat, the hair looked white in the slowmoving unfocused car lights, disturbed by it too, because she lifted her hand, beautifully manicured hand, in a vague, purposeless gesture which reached for and never touched the whitelooking curls.
Never until now had he thought of her as a person, with feelings, with emotions, always vaguely as a fine, generous, kind, great lady, a kind of separate and apart person, living and breathing, yes, but not as ever having known anger or hate or fear, not as a mother. She and the Captain didn’t like each other. Or rather, the Madam didn’t like the Captain. He wondered why the Captain called her Mrs. Treadway, never having had a mother-in-law he couldn’t hope to figure out all the delicate posturings and nuances and half-formed vague resentments that such a relationship might entail. The Copper boys’ wives all called Old Copper “Pop” easily, naturally. This formality between the Captain and the Madam was a strange thing.
He watched the doorway of The Last Chance. Nothing. Another car, and that sudden swift illumination revealing the Captain’s head, the Madam’s whitelooking curls. He wished someone would say something.
Two people walking past. Talking. He listened, glad to hear voices.
The man (querulously): I don’t know where he is. What you keep askin’ me that for? I told you—I ain’t seen him for two weeks.
The woman: What kind of fool you take me for? If you don’t know where he is, how come you got his wallet?
The man: He give it to me. He give it to me before he left.
The woman: ’Fore he left for where? You ain’t said nothin’ ’bout his leavin’ for nowhere.
The man: You ain’t give me chance. You been sayin’ nothin’ but where is he. I don’t know where he is. He told me he was goin’ away and he’s gone. I don’t know where he’s gone.
The woman: You always been a son of a bitch. He ain’t give you no wallet of his and you know it. What you done with him? You answer me that. Where is he? He’s your own brother and you gotta know where he is—
A quiet April rain, just enough fog to blur the edges of buildings, to destroy the clean outline of The Hangman. Hangman’s buds beginning to swell. No one would really be aware of the coming of spring in Dumble Street, except for The Hangman. Thought of Old Copper, “Got the goddamndest climate, in the whole United States.” Old Copper and his paintings, Mamie coming down the steps, walking slowly, bigbosomed, firmfleshed, brown skin translucent, like there was a light under it, redbrown, even the smile, the expression, just like the women in the paintings. The nudes. Outsize. Pinkfleshed.
Dreadful to watch Miss Camilo, to see Miss Camilo. Unbearable. He would collapse just like that if Mamie should leave him. Sound of the foghorn, Whodid? Whodid? Whodid? Why wouldn’t she go away from Monmouth? Go into the country. Country. Cows. Cool. Spring. Could remember that bellowing, that moaning mooing of a cow, night after night, day after day, nerve endings right at the surface of the skin, the sound tearing the nerves, and his grandmother finally yelling, Whyn’t somebody go git a bull, whyn’t somebody, nerve ends frazzled, exposed, jumping. Miss Camilo.
Wish again for voices. Scupper? Scupper? Scupper?
Then a blast of sound in the street. He jumped. And felt the men, the two men, the friends of the Captain’s, the two big young men that were like a blanket on each side of him exuding heat, warmth, jump too.
The Madam said, “What was that?” in a whisper, desperate, tense.
Then a voice, magnified, huge, all about them, said, “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.”
Then a whirring sound. Powther sighed. It was that new loudspeaker they’d installed in Reverend Longworth’s church—Masters University, healings of mind and body, I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and then the minister’s name, Dr. H. H. Franklin Longworth, F.M.B. Minister, Psychologist, Metaphysician. Everyone Is Welcome. That’s about what it said on the sign.
Mamie had told him about the loudspeaker that Reverend Longworth had had installed, had said they were going to try it out this Sunday, using a record. She said, “Now ain’t that goin’ to be a bitch, to have to listen to that pansy preachin’ and prayin’, just like he was in your house.”
The lights came on in the church, or rather the building that housed Reverend Longworth’s followers, came on suddenly, all over the building, spotlights on the sign across the front. Powther thought, It’s just as though he said, Let there be light. He could visualize Longworth’s face, his figure. He was a tall thin man, and his skin should have been brown but it was a sickly yellow, pallid yellow skin, like a plant whose leaves should have been dark green but because it was untouched by the sun, the leaves were pale yellow. He had a pointed beard too, and the beard was luxurious, thick, glossy, and didn’t match his face.
Well, I didn’t really bring the Madam here, he thought, that is, it was her idea, not mine; but I hate to have her listen to that charlatan perform. Then he couldn’t think any more because the blasting sound of the Reverend Longworth’s voice not only filled his ears, it filled his mind too.
Longworth (in a highpitched, rhythmical, hypnotic voice): And the Lord said unto Cain—
Then there was music, a choir composed of male and female voices began to hum, the sound rising, falling, rising, increasing in volume, and then an organ accompaniment in the background.
Slight pause. Organ music again. So loud it hurt the ears. Then the choir picked up the pitch of Longworth’s voice, uncannily, preposterously, so that the singing voices seemed to be answering him, or questioning him.
Choir: Oh my good Lord, Show me the way,
Enter the chariot travel along—
Longworth (voice louder, slower): And the Lord said unto Cain—
Choir: Noah sent out a mornin’ dove
Enter the chariot travel along—
Longworth: Where is Abel thy brother?
Choir: That dove came bearin’ a branch of love
Enter the chariot travel along—
Longworth (voice sonorous, slower and slower): And he said, What hast thou done?
Choir: Oh my good Lord, Show me the way,
Enter the chariot travel along—
Longworth (voice faster, louder, voice blasting): The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.
Choir (faster, louder, volume increasing):
Oh my good Lord, Show me the way,
Enter the chariot, travel along—
There was the loud whirring sound of the record. And then the voice of Reverend Longworth filled Dumble Street again. There was a caressing note in it this time. He said, “The service starts at seven o’clock tonight. Everyone is welcome. In the beginning there was the Word.” Long pause. “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” Then the whirring sound again. That’s what he said but the cajoling, caressing voice suggested that he was saying, Come unto me, I understand everything. Come. Be Saved.
Silence in the street now. Just the soft April rain. No cars. No one
walking past. Idling sound of the motor. Scupper of the windshield wiper. Foghorn. Whodid, whodid, whodid. Redorange neon sign in front of The Last Chance. Then the clang-clang of a trolley car over on Franklin.
He was unpleasantly aware of the two big young men on each side of him, unpleasantly aware of the warmth from their bodies. Two big young male animals.
The mateless cow, bellowing.
Where is thy brother? Lost somewhere between the whodid of the foghorn, and the scupperscupper of the windshield wiper. He wasn’t my brother. I have to prove he wasn’t my brother. Prove to these people in this car, that all Negroes are not criminal, some of them are good, some of them are selfrespecting, some of them are first class butlers named Powther.
He had looked at that picture on the front page of the Chronicle, picture of a black man with a livid living scar across one side of his face, picture of an escaped convict who was dead, but who lived again in that nightmare photograph. Looked at it and shuddered.
Then he had seen the same newspaper on the Madam’s desk, the same picture, when she said, Will you point out, point at, point? Looked at it and started to shudder again, thinking, Why should the face of this animal be permitted to enter my world, expected to hear the Madam say, You have been satisfactory, done a good job here, but you might become, you might, after all, you belong to the same race, there must be in you whatever it was in this man that made him—and instead she said, Will you point out. Point at. Point.
Sunday morning. This morning. It seemed a long time ago. He had gone up the stairs, slowly, wondering why he was being summoned to the morning room at ten o’clock. The Madam was sitting at her desk, turning over some papers. She said, “Powther, I need your help.”
“My help, madam? I’ll be glad to—”
“Wait,” she said sharply. “Don’t say that until you know what I want you to do. Do you know the man named Lincoln Williams?”
“Lincoln Williams?” he repeated. “You mean Link Williams? Why, yes—” and he was embarrassed because he did not want to discuss Miss Camilo with the Madam.
“You see, I—that is, we, Captain Sheffield and I want to talk to him. And we do not know him when we see him. I thought you might be willing to go into that area with us, and point him out to us.”
Link Williams, he thought, Link Williams, point him out, point him out, what did she mean, point him out for what, point with your finger, but why? For what? Then he thought, “That area.” It sounded like a compound. Dumble Street. She doesn’t know, she has forgotten that I live there.
“You undoubtedly know about the troubles we’ve had of late. And if you could help us, I would be extremely grateful, Powther.”
In the early morning sunlight she looked old and tired and there were new fine lines around her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before; and her hair was drylooking, brittlelooking, that light blond hair that had gray in it, but it didn’t show up at first glance because of the color of the hair, same color hair that Miss Camilo had; most people thought Miss Camilo dyed it but she didn’t, it was naturally that color. And the Madam’s eyes, funny, and he didn’t quite believe it, seemed to plead with him for help. He thought, Why, she’s really all alone. There isn’t anybody to help her. Miss Camilo is walking around in a trance, drinking too much, taking sleeping pills, Rita said the Madam had gotten after Miss Camilo about the sleeping pills, had asked Miss Camilo to go back to New York, and Miss Camilo had refused to leave Monmouth. Or so Rita said.
What did she want him to do? Point at, point to, point out. Point.
“You will do it?”
“Certainly, madam. It’s a small enough thing to ask. I’ll be glad to.”
So here they sat, in the Captain’s car, waiting, and the windshield wiper kept making that talking sound, Scupper, scupper, scupper. Sometimes he thought it was in the form of a question: Scupper? Scupper? Scupper?
The door of The Last Chance opened again. Powther leaned forward, “That’s him,” he said, pointing at the man who stood for a moment under the redorange sign, bathed in redorange light, redorange from head to foot, hatless, coatless.
They all watched him, waiting, to see if he was going to cross the street, move away from the door. He stood there, motionless.
Powther kept willing him to move, thinking, End the agony, the jealousy, the pain, the hurt, the outraged cries that bubble up in one’s throat at night, and the nights, the dark, pitiless, endless nights, I know what it’s like and so does the Captain. Link Williams and Bill Hod, mixed up in his mind, had become one and the same person in his mind.
At this moment, if it works out right, because they only plan to frighten him, make him leave Monmouth, I am helping to get rid of this creature who is worse than thief, worse than murderer, this wife stealer, and here and now in this thing the Captain and I are equals, both outraged, both victims, and so we have achieved a kind of togetherness, and in this way I have restored a little of my own long lost selfrespect.
The two young men were leaning forward, watching, too, waiting, too, and Powther thought he could feel the tenseness in them, thought of the badges they had, nickel badges that would shine just like real ones, under an electric light, thought of that white paper they carried, that could at just a glance appear to be a warrant, paper with a picture pasted on it, smooth paste job, so that it was almost like print, and that official-looking type, cut from an old newspaper and pasted on so that that, too, at first glance seemed part and parcel of a real warrant, only it said:
Life is a mysterious and exciting affair and anything can be a thrill if you know how to look for it, and what to do with opportunity when it comes.
Rain misting the windshield, and the wiper talking to itself, it was a statement now, Scupper, scupper, scupper.
He thought, Why am I here? Why me? They couldn’t trust anybody else. They can’t tell one colored person from another. Link Williams and I look alike to them. They couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, let alone on this street, this rainy street, at almost night, because all colored persons look alike to them.
Suddenly he said, “There.”
Because Link Williams was moving away from the door of The Last Chance, walking away, toward the dock, with that easy effortless walk. He said, “That’s him,” again, louder, emphasizing it, with a large wide gesture of his hand.
The two big young men got out of the car. Powther saw Link Williams hesitate, saw the flash of the badges under the street light, saw the whiteness of the paper they held out toward him, warrant for his arrest, official-looking warrant.
Then he slipped out of the car, got out on the side next to the road, a little man indistinguishable in the dusk, just a small anonymous figure, moving fast, moving away fast, hurrying away from the sound of the windshield wiper, Scupper, scupper, scupper.
Once inside the kitchen, in the heat, and the light, and the smell of the food cooking, and the yelping of the boys, the sound of Mamie’s singing, he started to tremble, to shake, it was more than shaking, it was a jerking of his body.
Mamie said, “Sugar, what’s the matter? You look awful,” and put her arms around him, pulling his head down on her big soft breasts, cushioning his head there.
22
* * *
THE MOMENT Link Williams sat down in the back seat of the car, handcuffed, he knew that these men, sitting on each side of him, were not policemen, not plainclothesmen, knew that this new black Packard was not a police car. The motor was running, and the man behind the steering wheel put the car in gear, pulled off, before the doors slammed shut, in the back.
They went down Dock Street, car going fast, faster. He thought, Kidnaping? Ransom? Have I somehow got mixed up in one of Mr. B. Hod’s private wars?
He leaned back against the seat, relaxed against it, and the trenchcoated gentlemen, on each side of him, stiffened, tensed, very nearly jumped, he could feel their bodies tighten up. He
wondered what they had expected him to do, a man handcuffed, sitting between two men not handcuffed.
They turned off Dock Street and went east for a block, turned again, and went down Franklin Avenue, following the trolley tracks. Couldn’t be a kidnaping because the driver was staying on this through road. Yet the lady on the front seat doesn’t like light. He could see the outlines of her shoulders, see whitelooking, curly hair. She doesn’t like the pauses for the stop lights, she stiffens, shoulders get rigid; and these gentlemen in the back seat don’t like the stop lights either, they shrink back as though they were trying to escape into the steel framework of the car. Not kidnaping. Some other dark midnight deed.
Going faster and faster, still following the car tracks. He used to ride this route, on the trolley. If they stayed on Franklin he would recognize the place where the tracks ended, just disappeared in the black of the macadam road. End of the line. Used to ride the trolley, going to work for the Valkills, an almost-but-not-quite-middle-aged, childless couple, who wanted someone just for the summer, someone to set the table and wash-wipe a few dishes. Abbie found the job for him when he was twelve years old.
He used to get on the trolley about eight-thirty in the morning, and the air was clean and clear and fresh, and still cool, at that hour. He liked the clang of the trolley, liked to watch the people get on and off, most of them knew the motorman, and everything was friendly and the people all looked early morning clean and brisk. He rode the car to the end of the line, and got out and walked a quarter of a mile to where the Valkills lived, and as he walked along, the nearer he got to the house, the more the early morning cleanness seemed to evaporate, diminish, begin to slide down into the hot tired dreary part of the day.