The Oxford Book of American Short Stories

by Joyce Carol Oates

  "Youall want me, Tom?"

  "Thats what us wants, sho, Louisa."

  "Well, here I am—"

  "An here I is, but that aint ahelpin none, all th same."

  "You wanted to say something? . ."

  "I did that, sho. But words is like th spots on dice: no matter how y fumbles em, there's times when they jes wont come. I dunno why. Seems like th love I feels fo yo done stole m tongue. I got it now. Wheel Louisa, honey, I oughtnt tell y, I feel I oughtnt cause yo is young an goes t church an I has had other gals, but Louisa I sho do love y. Lil gal, Ise watched y from them first days when youall sat right here befo yo door befo th well an sang some-times in a way that like t broke m heart. Ise carried y with me into th fields, day after day, an after that, an I sho can plow when yo is there, an I can pick cotton. Yassur! Come near beatin Barlo yesterday. I sho did. Yassur! An next year if ole Stone'll trust me, I'll have a farm. My own. My bales will buy yo what y gets from white folks now. Silk stockings an purple dresses—course I dont believe what some folks been whisperin as t how y gets them things now. White folks always did do for niggers what they likes. An they jes cant help alikin yo, Louisa. Bob Stone likes y. Course he does. But not th way folks is awhisperin. Does he, hon?"

  "I dont know what you mean, Tom."

  "Course y dont. Ise already cut two niggers. Had t hon, t tell em so. Niggers always tryin t make somethin out a nothin. An then besides, white folks aint up t them tricks so much nowadays. Godam better not be. Leastawise not with yo. Cause I wouldnt stand f it. Nassur."

  "What would you do, Tom?"

  "Cut him jes like I cut a nigger."

  "No, Tom—"

  "I said I would an there aint no mo to it. But that aint th talk f now. Sing, honey Louisa, an while I'm listenin t y I'll be makin love."

  Tom took her hand in his. Against the tough thickness of his own, hers felt soft and small. His huge body slipped down to the step beside her. The full moon sank upward into the deep purple of the cloud-bank. An old woman brought a lighted lamp and hung it on the common well whose bulky shadow squatted in the middle of the road, opposite Tom and Louisa. The old woman lifted the well-lid, took hold the chain, and began drawing up the heavy bucket. As she did so, she sang. Figures shifted, restlesslike, between lamp and window in the front rooms of the shanties. Shadows of the figures fought each other on the gray dust of the road. Figures raised the windows and joined the old woman in song. Louisa and Tom, the whole street, singing:

  Red nigger moon. Sinner! Blood-burning moon. Sinner! Come out that fact'ry door.

  3

  Bob Stone sauntered from his veranda out into the gloom of fir trees and magnolias. The clear white of his skin paled, and the flush of his cheeks turned purple. As if to balance this outer change, his mind became consciously a white man's. He passed the house with its huge open hearth which, in the days of slavery, was the plantation cookery. He saw Louisa bent over that hearth. He went in as a master should and took her. Direct, honest, bold. None of this sneaking that he had to go through now. The contrast was repulsive to him. His family had lost ground. Hell no, his family still owned the niggers, practically. Damned if they did, or he wouldnt have to duck around so. What would they think if they knew? His mother? His sister? He shouldnt mention them, shouldnt think of them in this connection. There in the dusk he blushed at doing so. Fellows about town were all right, but how about his friends up North? He could see them incredible, repulsed. They didnt know. The thought first made him laugh. Then, with their eyes still upon him, he began to feel embarrassed. He felt the need of explaining things to them. Explain hell. They wouldnt understand, and moreover, who ever heard of a Southerner getting on his knees to any Yankee, or anyone. No sir. He was going to see Louisa to-night, and love her. She was lovely—in her way. Nigger way. What way was that? Damned if he knew. Must know. He'd known her long enough to know. Was there something about niggers that you couldnt know? Listening to them at church didnt tell you anything. Looking at them didnt tell you anything. Talking to them didnt tell you anything—unless it was gossip, unless they wanted to talk. Of course, about farming, and licker, and craps— but those werent nigger. Nigger was something more. How much more? Something to be afraid of, more? Hell no. Who ever heard of being afraid of a nigger? Tom Burwell. Cartwell had told him that Tom went with Louisa after she reached home. No sir. No nigger had ever been with his girl. He'd like to see one try. Some position for him to be in. Him, Bob Stone, of the old Stone family, in a scrap with a nigger over a nigger girl. In the good old days . . . Ha! Those were the days. His family had lost ground. Not so much, though. Enough for him to have cut through old Lemon's canefield by way of the woods, that he might meet her. She was worth it. Beautiful nigger gal. Why nigger? Why not, just gal? No, it was because she was nigger that he went to her. Sweet . . . The scent of boiling cane came to him. Then he saw the rich glow of the stove. He heard the voices of the men circled around it. He was about to skirt the clearing when he heard his own name mentioned. He stopped. Quivering. Leaning against a tree, he listened.

  "Bad nigger. Yassur, he sho is one bad nigger when he gets started."

  "Tom Burwell's been on th gang three times fo cuttin men."

  "What y think he's agwine t do t Bob Stone?"

  "Dunno yet. He aint found out. When he does—Baby!"

  "Aint no tellin."

  "Young Stone aint no quitter an I ken tell y that. Blood of th old uns in his veins."

  "Thats right. He'll scrap, sho."

  "Be gettin too hot f niggers round this away. "

  "Shut up, nigger. Y dont know what y talkin bout."

  Bob Stone's ears burned as though he had been holding them over the stove. Sizzling heat welled up within him. His feet felt as if they rested on red-hot coals. They stung him to quick movement. He circled the fringe of the glowing. Not a twig cracked beneath his feet. He reached the path that led to factory town. Plunged furiously down it. Halfway along, a blindness within him veered him aside. He crashed into the bordering canebrake. Cane leaves cut his face and lips. He tasted blood. He threw himself down and dug his fingers in the ground. The earth was cool. Cane-roots took the fever from his hands. After a long while, or so it seemed to him, the thought came to him that it must be time to see Louisa. He got to his feet and walked calmly to their meeting place. No Louisa. Tom Burwell had her. Veins in his forehead bulged and distended. Saliva moistened the dried blood on his lips. He bit down on his lips. He tasted blood. Not his own blood; Tom Burwell's blood. Bob drove through the cane and out again upon the road. A hound swung down the path before him towards factory town. Bob couldnt see it. The dog loped aside to let him pass. Bob's blind rushing made him stumble over it. He fell with a thud that dazed him. The hound yelped. Answering yelps came from all over the countryside. Chickens cackled. Boosters crowed, heralding the bloodshot eyes of southern awakening. Singers in the town were silenced. They shut their windows down. Palpitant between the rooster crows, a chill hush settled upon the huddled forms of Tom and Louisa. A figure rushed from the shadow and stood before them. Tom popped to his feet.

  "Whats y want?"

  "I'm Bob Stone."

  "Yassur—an I'm Tom Burwell. Whats y want?"

  Bob lunged at him. Tom side-stepped, caught him by the shoulder, and flung him to the ground. Straddled him.

  "Let me up."

  "Yassur—but watch yo doins, Bob Stone."

  A few dark figures, drawn by the sound of scuffle, stood about them. Bob sprang to his feet.

  "Fight like a man, Tom Burwell, an I'll lick y."

  Again he lunged. Tom side-stepped and flung him to the ground. Straddled him.

  "Get off me, you godam nigger you."

  "Yo sho has started somethin now. Get up."

  Tom yanked him up and began hammering at him. Each blow sounded as if it smashed into a precious, irreplaceable soft something. Beneath them, Bob staggered back. He reached in his pocket and whipped out a knife.

  "Thats my g
ame, sho."

  Blue flash, a steel blade slashed across Bob Stone's throat. He had a sweetish sick feeling. Blood began to flow. Then he felt a sharp twitch of pain. He let his knife drop. He slapped one hand against his neck. He pressed the other on top of his head as if to hold it down. He groaned. He turned, and staggered towards the crest of the hill in the direction of white town. Negroes who had seen the fight slunk into their homes and blew the lamps out. Louisa, dazed, hysterical, refused to go indoors. She slipped, crumbled, her body loosely propped against the woodwork of the well. Tom Burwell leaned against it. He seemed rooted there.

  Bob reached Broad Street. White men rushed up to him. He collapsed in their arms.

  "Tom Burwell. ..."

  White men like ants upon a forage rushed about. Except for the taut hum of their moving, all was silent. Shotguns, revolvers, rope, kerosene, torches. Two high-powered cars with glaring search-lights. They came together. The taut hum rose to a low roar. Then nothing could be heard but the flop of their feet in the thick dust of the road. The moving body of their silence preceded them over the crest of the hill into factory town. It flattened the Negroes beneath it. It rolled to the wall of the factory, where it stopped. Tom knew that they were coming. He couldnt move. And then he saw the search-lights of the two cars glaring down on him. A quick shock went through him. He stiffened. He started to run. A yell went up from the mob. Tom wheeled about and faced them. They poured down on him. They swarmed. A large man with dead-white face and flabby cheeks came to him and almost jabbed a gun-barrel through his guts.

  "Hands behind y, nigger."

  Tom's wrists were bound. The big man shoved him to the well. Burn him over it, and when the woodwork caved in, his body would drop to the bottom. Two deaths for a godam nigger. Louisa was driven back. The mob pushed in. Its pressure, its momentum was too great. Drag him to the factory. Wood and stakes already there. Tom moved in the direction indicated. But they had to drag him. They reached the great door. Too many to get in there. The mob divided and flowed around the walls to either side. The big man shoved him through the door. The mob pressed in from the sides. Taut humming. No words. A stake was sunk into the ground. Rotting floor boards piled around it. Kerosene poured on the rotting floor boards. Tom bound to the stake. His breast was bare. Nails' scratches let little lines of blood trickle down and mat into the hair. His face, his eyes were set and stony. Except for irregular breathing, one would have thought him already dead. Torches were flung onto the pile. A great flare muffled in black smoke shot upward. The mob yelled. The mob was silent. Now Tom could be seen within the flames. Only his head, erect, lean, like a blackened stone. Stench of burning flesh soaked the air. Tom's eyes popped. His head settled downward. The mob yelled. Its yell echoed against the skeleton stone walls and sounded like a hundred yells. Like a hundred mobs yelling. Its yell thudded against the thick front wall and fell back. Ghost of a yell slipped through the flames and out the great door of the factory. It fluttered like a dying thing down the single street of factory town. Louisa, upon the step before her home, did not hear it, but her eyes opened slowly. They saw the full moon glowing in the great door. The full moon, an evil thing, an omen, soft showering the homes of folks she knew. Where were they, these people? She'd sing, and perhaps they'd come out and join her. Perhaps Tom Burwell would come. At any rate, the full moon in the great door was an omen which she must sing to:

  Red nigger moon. Sinner! Blood-burning moon. Sinner! Come out that fact'ry door.

  ERNEST HEMINGWAY (1899-1961)

  So profound has Ernest Hemingway's influence been upon American literature, and upon the short story in particular, any number of his stories might he singled out as "best" or "representative" work. "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" is a model of compression and understated pathos; in its classical simplicity, as in other brief masterpieces by Hemingway, "A Very Short Story" and "Hills Like White Elephants," for instance, the author's stoical vision is memorably dramatized.

  Ernest Hemingway was born in Oak Park, Illinois, but lived most of his adult life—in time, a disconcertingly public life—as an expatriate American. Indeed, Hemingway defined himself in bold opposition to the solidly church-going, middle-class Caucasian America that was his heritage. His first published story was "My Old Man," strongly influenced by Sherwood Anderson, and chosen for The Best American Short Stories 1923; the author was twenty-four years old. His first book to appear in the United States, In Our Time (1925), is a gathering of linked short stories and prose sketches, published by way of Sherwood Anderson's intervention. Thereafter, each book by Ernest Hemingway would constitute a literary event, occasionally one of controversy: The Sun Also Rises (1926), Men Without Women (1927), A Farewell to Arms (1929), Green Hills of Africa (1938), To Have and Have Not (1937), For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940), The Old Man and the Sea (1952), among others. It is likely that, had Hemingway written only several of his greatest short stories—"The Snows of Kilimanjaro," "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber," "Soldier's Home," "Big Two-Hearted River," for instance—he would be as honored as a master of American prose as he is now.

  A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

  IT was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the daytime the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the café knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

  "Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.

  "Why?"

  "He was in despair."

  "What about?"

  "Nothing."

  "How do you know it was nothing?"

  "He has plenty of money."

  They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of the café and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him.

  "The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.

  "What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"

  "He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago."

  The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him.

  "What do you want?"

  The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.

  "You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.

  "He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."

  The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter inside the café and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy.

  "You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deaf man. The old man motioned with his finger. "A little more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile. "Thank you," the old man said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the café. He sat down at the table with his colleague again.

  "He's drunk now," he said.

  "He's drunk every night."

  "What did he want to kill himself for?"

  "How should I know."

  "How did he do it?"

  "He hung himself with a rope."

  "Who cut him down?"

  "His niece."

  "Why did they do it?"

  "Fear for his soul."

  "How much money has he got?"

  "He's got plenty."

  "He must be eighty years
old."

  "Anyway I should say he was eighty."

  "I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"

  "He stays up because he likes it."

  "He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me."

  "He had a wife once too."

  "A wife would be no good to him now."

  "You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."

  "His niece looks after him."

  "I know. You said she cut him down."

  "I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing. "

  "Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."

  "I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."

  The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.

  "Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.

  "Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."

  "Another," said the old man.

  "No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.

  The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip.

  The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.