‘I wish I could kill them,’ Mick said.
The house quieted. The people in the dining-room went out to work. Mick and George left for school and the baby was shut into one of the front rooms. Mrs. Kelly wrapped a towel around her head and took a broom with her upstairs.
The mute still stood in the doorway. Doctor Copeland gazed up into his face. ‘You know of this?’ he asked again. The words did not sound--they choked in his throat--but his eyes asked the question all the same. Then the mute was gone.
Doctor Copeland and Portia were alone. He sat for some time on the stool in the corner. At last he rose to go.
‘You sit back down, Father. Us going to stay together this morning. I going to fry some fish and have egg-bread and potatoes for the dinner. You stay on here, and then I means to serve you a good hot meal.’
‘You know I have calls.’
‘Less us just this one day. Please, Father. I feels like I going to really bust loose. Besides, I don’t want you messing around in the streets by yourself.’
He hesitated and felt the collar of his overcoat. It was very damp. ‘Daughter, I am sorry. You know I have visits.’
Portia held his shawl over the stove until the wool was hot.
She buttoned his coat and turned up the collar about his neck.
He cleared his throat and spat into one of the squares of paper that he carried with him in his pocket Then he burned the paper in the stove. On the way out he stopped and spoke to Highboy on the steps. He suggested that Highboy stay with Portia if he could arrange to get leave from work.
The air was piercing and cold. From the low, dark skies the drizzling rain fell steadily. The rain had seeped into the garbage cans and in the alley there was the rank odor of wet refuse. As he walked he balanced himself with the help of a fence and kept his dark eyes on the ground.
He made all the strictly necessary visits. Then he attended to office patients from noon until two o’clock. Afterward he sat at his desk with his fists clenched tight. But it was useless to try to cogitate on this thing. He wished never again to see a human face. Yet at the same time he could not sit alone in the empty room. He put on his overcoat and went out again into the wet, cold street. In his pocket were several prescriptions to be left at the pharmacy.
But he did not wish to speak with Marshall Nicolls. He went into the store and laid the prescriptions upon the counter. The pharmacist turned from the powders he was measuring and held out both his hands. His thick lips worked soundlessly for a moment before he gained his poise.
‘Doctor,’ he said formally. ‘You must be aware that I and all our colleagues and the members of my lodge and church--we have your sorrow uppermost in our minds and wish to extend to you our deepest sympathy.’
Doctor Copeland turned shortly and left without a word. That was too little. Something more was needed. The strong, true purpose, the will to justice. He walked stiffly, his arms held close to his sides, toward the main street. He cogitated without success. He could think of no white person of power in all the town who was both brave and just. He thought of every lawyer, every judge, every public official with whose name he was familiar--but the thought of each one of these white men was bitter in his heart. At last he decided on the judge of the Superior Court. When he reached the courthouse he did not hesitate but entered quickly, determined to see the judge that afternoon.
The wide front hall was empty except for a few idlers who lounged in the doorways leading to the offices on either side.
He did not know where he could find the judge’s office, so he wandered uncertainly through the building, looking at the placards on the doors. At last he came to a narrow passage.
Halfway through this corridor three white men stood talking together and blocked the way. He drew close to the wall to pass, but one of them turned to stop him.
‘What you want?’
‘Will you please tell me where the judge’s office is located?’
The white man jerked his thumb toward the end of the passage. Doctor Copeland recognized him as a deputy sheriff.
They had seen each other dozens of times but the deputy did not remember him. All white people looked similar to Negroes but Negroes took care to differentiate between them. On the other hand, all Negroes looked similar to white men but white men did not usually bother to fix the face of a Negro in their minds. So the white man said, What you want, Reverend?’
The familiar joking title nettled him. I am not a minister,’ he said, ‘I am a physician, a medical doctor. My name is Benedict Mady Copeland and I wish to see the judge immediately on urgent business.’
The deputy was like other white men in that a clearly enunciated speech maddened him. ‘Is that so?’ he mocked. He winked at his friends. Then I am the deputy sheriff and my name is Mister Wilson and I tell you the judge is busy. Come back some other day.’
‘It is imperative that I see the judge,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘I will wait.’
There was a bench at the entrance of the passage and he sat down. The three white men continued to talk, but he knew that the sheriff watched him. He was determined not to leave.
More than half an hour passed. Several white men went freely back and forth through the corridor. He knew that the deputy was watching him and he sat rigid, his hands pressed between his knees. His sense of prudence told him to go away and return later in the afternoon when the sheriff was not there.
All of his life he had been circumspect in his dealings with such people. But now something in him would not let him withdraw.
‘Come here, you!’ the deputy said finally.
His head trembled, and when he arose he was not steady on his feet. ‘Yes?’
What you say you wanted to see the judge about?’
‘I did not say,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘I merely said that my business with him was urgent.’
‘You can’t stand up straight. You been drinking liquor, haven’t you? I smell it on your breath.’
‘That is a lie,’ said Doctor Copeland slowly. I have not--‘ The sheriff struck him on the face. He fell against the wall. Two white men grasped him by the arm and dragged him down the steps to the main floor. He did not resist. ‘That’s the trouble with this country,’ the sheriff said. These damn biggity niggers like him.’ He spoke no word and let them do with him as they would. He waited for the terrible anger and felt it arise in him. Rage made him weak, so that he stumbled. They put him into the wagon with two men as guards. They took him to the station and then to the jail. It was only when they entered the jail that the strength of his rage came to him. He broke loose suddenly from their grasp. In a corner he was surrounded. They struck him on the head and shoulders with their clubs. A glorious strength was in him and he heard himself laughing aloud as he fought He sobbed and laughed at the same time. He kicked wildly with his feet. He fought with his fists and even struck at them with his head. Then he was clutched fast so that he could not move. They dragged him foot by foot through the hall of the jail. The door to a cell was opened. Someone behind kicked him in the groin and he fell to his knees on the floor.
In the cramped cubicle there were five other prisoners--three Negroes and two white men. One of the white men was very old and drunk. He sat on the floor and scratched himself. The other white prisoner was a boy not more than fifteen years of age. The three Negroes were young. As Doctor Copeland lay on the bunk looking up into their faces he recognized one of them.
‘How come you here?’ the young man asked. ‘Ain’t you Doctor Copeland?’
He said yes.
‘My name Dary White. You taken out my sister’s tonsils last year.’
The icy cell was permeated with a rotten odor. A pail brimming with urine was in a corner. Cockroaches crawled upon the walls. He closed his eyes and immediately he must have slept, for when he looked up again the small barred window was black and a bright light burned in the hall. Four empty tin plates were on the floor. His dinner of cabb
age and cornbread was beside him.
He sat on the bunk and sneezed violently several times. When he breathed the phlegm rattled in his chest. After a while the young white boy began to sneeze also. Doctor Copeland ran out of squares of paper and had to use sheets from a notebook in his pocket. The white boy leaned over the pail in the corner or simply let the water run from his nose onto the front of his shirt. His eyes were dilated, his clear cheeks flushed. He huddled on the edge of a bunk and groaned.
Soon they were led out to the lavatory, and on their return they prepared for sleep. There were six men to occupy four bunks. The old man lay snoring on the floor. Dary and another boy squeezed into a bunk together.
The hours were long. The light in the hall burned his eyes and the odor in the cell made every breath a discomfort. He could not keep warm. His teeth chattered and he shook with a hard chill. He sat up with the dirty blanket wrapped around him and swayed to and fro. Twice he reached over to cover the white boy, who muttered and threw out his arms in sleep. He swayed, his head in his hands, and from his throat there came a singing moan. He could not think of William. Nor could he even cogitate upon the strong, true purpose and draw strength from that. He could only feel the misery in him.
Then the tide of his fever turned. A warmth spread through him. He lay back, and it seemed he sank down into a place warm and red and full of comfort.
The next morning the sun came out. The strange Southern winter was at its end. Doctor Copeland was released. A little group waited outside the jail for him. Mr. Singer was there.
Portia and Highboy and Marshall Nicolls were present also.
Their faces were confused and he could not see them clearly.
The sun was very bright.
‘Father, don’t you know that ain’t no way to help our Willie? Messing around at a white folks’ courthouse? Best thing us can do is keep our mouth shut and wait.’
Her loud voice echoed wearily in his ears. They climbed into a ten-cent taxicab, and then he was home and his face pressed into the fresh white pillow.
MICK could not sleep all night. Etta was sick, so she had to sleep in the living-room. The sofa was too narrow and short. She had nightmares about Willie. Nearly a month had gone by since Portia had told about what they had done to him--but still she couldn’t forget it. Twice in the night she had these bad dreams and woke up on the floor. A bump came out on her forehead. Then at six o’clock she heard Bill go to the kitchen and fix his breakfast. It was daylight, but the shades were down so that the room was half-dark. She felt queer waking up in the living-room. She didn’t like it. The sheet was twisted around her, half on the sofa and half on the floor. The pillow was in the middle of the room. She got up and opened the door to the hall. Nobody was on the stairs. She ran in her nightgown to the back room.
‘Move over, George.’ K The kid lay in the very center of the bed. The night had been warm and he was naked as a jay bird. His fists were shut tight, and even in sleep his eyes were squinted like he was thinking about something very hard to figure out. His mouth was open and there was a little wet spot on the pillow. She pushed him.
‘Wait--’ he said in his sleep.
‘Move over on your side.’
‘Wait--Lemme just finish this here dream--this here--’ She hauled him over where he belonged and lay down close to him. When she opened her eyes again it was late, because the sun shone in through the back window. George was gone.
From the yard she heard kids’ voices and the sound of water running. Etta and Hazel were talking in the middle room. As she dressed a sudden notion came to her. She listened at the door but it was hard to hear what they said. She jerked the door open quick to surprise them.
They were reading a movie magazine. Etta was still in bed.
She had her hand halfway over the picture of an actor. ‘From here up don’t you think he favors that boy who used to date with--’
‘How you feel this morning, Etta?’ Mick asked. She looked down under the bed and her private box was still in the exact place where she had left it ‘A lot you care,’ Etta said. ‘You needn’t try to pick a fight’ Etta’s face was peaked. There was a terrible pain in her stomach and her ovary was diseased. It had something to do with being unwell. The doctor said they would have to cut out her ovary right away. But their Dad said they would have to wait. There wasn’t any money.
‘How do you expect me to act, anyway?’ Mick said. ‘I ask you a polite question and then you start to nag at me. I feel like I ought to be sorry for you because you’re sick, but you won’t let me be decent. Therefore I naturally get mad.’ She pushed back the bangs of her hair and looked close into the mirror. ‘Boy! See this bump I got! I bet my head’s broke. Twice I fell out last night and it seemed to me like I hit that table by the sofa. I can’t sleep in the living-room. That sofa cramps me so much I can’t stay in it’
‘Hush that talking so loud,’Hazel said.
Mick knelt down on the floor and pulled out the big box. She looked carefully at the string that was tied around it. ‘Say, have either of you fooled with this?’
‘Shoot!’ Etta said. ‘What would we want to mess with your junk for?’
‘You just better not. I’d kill anybody that tried to mess with my private things.’
‘Listen to that,’ Hazel said. ‘Mick Kelly, I think you’re the most selfish person I’ve ever known. You don’t care a thing in the world about anybody but--’
‘Aw, poot!’ She slammed the door. She hated both of them.
That was a terrible thing to think, but it was true.
Her Dad was in the kitchen with Portia. He had on his bathrobe and was drinking a cup of coffee. The whites of his eyes were red and his cup rattled against his saucer. He walked round and round the kitchen table.
‘What time is it? Has Mister Singer gone yet?’
‘He been gone, Hon,’ Portia said. ‘It near about ten o’clock.’
‘Ten o’clock! Golly! I never have slept that late before.’
‘What you keep in that big hatbox you tote around with you?’
Mick reached into the stove and brought out half a dozen biscuits. ‘Ask me no questions and Til tell you no lies. A bad end comes to a person who pries. If there’s a little extra milk I think Til just have it poured over some crumbled bread,’ her Dad said. ‘Grave yard soup. Maybe that will help settle my stomach.’ Mick split open the biscuits and put slices of fried white meat inside them. She sat down on the back steps to eat her breakfast. The morning was warm and bright. Spare-ribs and Sucker were playing with George in the back yard. Sucker wore his sun suit and the other two kids had taken off all their clothes except their shorts. They were scooting each other with the hose. The stream of water sparkled bright in the sun.
The wind blew out sprays of it like mist and in this mist there were the colors of the rainbow. A line of clothes flapped in the wind--white sheets, Ralph’s blue dress, a red blouse and nightgowns--wet and fresh and blowing out in different shapes. The day was almost like summer-time. Fuzzy little yellowjackets buzzed around the honeysuckle on the alley fence.
‘Watch me hold it up over my head!’ George hollered. ‘Watch how the water runs down.’
She was too full of energy to sit still. George had filled a meal sack with dirt and hung it to a limb of the tree for a punching bag. She began to hit this. Puck! Pock! She hit it in time to the song that had been in her mind when she woke up. George had mixed a sharp rock in the dirt and it bruised her knuckles.
‘Aoow! You skeeted the water right in my ear. It’s busted my eardrum. I can’t even hear.’
‘Gimme here. Let me skeet some.’
Sprays of the water blew into her face, and once the kids turned the hose on her legs. She was afraid her box would get wet, so she carried it with her through the alley to the front porch. Harry was sitting on his steps reading the newspaper.
She opened her box and got out the notebook. But it was hard to settle her m
ind on the song she wanted to write down.
Harry was looking over in her direction and she could not think.
She and Harry had talked about so many things lately. Nearly every day they walked home from school together. They talked about God. Sometimes she would wake up in the night and shiver over what they had said. Harry was a Pantheist.
That was a religion, the same as Baptist or Catholic or Jew.
Harry believed that after you were dead and buried you changed to plants and fire and dirt and clouds and water. It took thousands of years and then finally you were a part of all the world. He said he thought that was better than being one single angel. Anyhow it was better than nothing.
Harry threw the newspaper into his hall and then came over.
‘It’s hot like summer,’ he said. ‘And only March.’
‘Yeah. I wish we could go swimming.’
‘We would if there was any place.’
There’s not any place. Except that country club pool.’
‘I sure would like to do something--to get out and go somewhere.’
‘Me too,’ she said, ‘Wait! I know one place. It’s out in the country about fifteen miles. It’s a deep, wide creek in the woods. The Girl Scouts have a camp there in the summertime. Mrs. Wells took me and George and Pete and Sucker swimming there one time last year.’
If you want to I can get bicycles and we can go tomorrow. I have a holiday one Sunday a month.’
‘Well ride out and take a picnic dinner,’ Mick said.
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter Page 26