A Fine Dark Line (17 page)

Callie gave me a look that showed she was finally, and truly, frightened. “Walk faster,” she said.

We did. Much faster. So did our companion in the woods. And he was moving close to the edge of the trees, nearer to us. The train’s headlight flashed behind us, filled the night with a glow like a second moon. The whistle sounded and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Run,” Callie said. We broke and ran all out. Whoever, or whatever, was in the woods beside us began running as well; the harder we ran, the harder it ran.

I peered over my shoulder, saw a man lurch out of the woods, start sprinting behind us. I knew in a glance it must be Bubba Joe. His bulk was framed in the light of the train. His hat brim blew back and his coat trailed behind him like the rags of a wraith.

The train was chugging and puffing, popping sparks, blowing its whistle, telling anyone up the way that might listen it was coming fast and would soon cross the trestle bridge.

When it was almost on us, Callie, who was breathing heavy, said, “We got to cross the tracks. We don’t, he’ll catch us.”

She crossed, her long legs flying like those of a grasshopper. I went after her. Richard followed as the train passed and
the wind of it blew up the back of my shirt and ruffled my hair. The train charged on, clanked and sparked the rails, filled our nostrils with the stench of charred oil and hot scraped metal.

Our pursuer was left on the other side of the track.

I looked down the track, observed it was a long train a winding. It would be coming for some time before it passed us. I bent over and gulped air and felt as if I were going to throw up. We had missed death by only a few feet. I wanted to grab Callie and start hitting her, and I wanted to grab her and kiss her, because if we hadn’t crossed, Bubba Joe, or whoever that was, would have caught us. I don’t know what he would have done with us, but he would have caught us.

I said, “I think that was Bubba Joe.”

“Could have just been some hobo,” Callie said, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t care who it was,” Richard said. “I’m goin’ home, and I don’t care if Daddy does catch me and give me a beatin’.”

We started walking away, then started running, and pretty soon we were on the wooded trail and the wind and the blowing leaves followed us all the way back to the sawmill. We paused there to get our breath. I looked up at the hanging metal ladder that led up to the upper level of what was left of the mill, heard the chute shift and creak in the breeze.

We got our bikes. Richard rode home. Me and Callie did the same.

Quietly, we put our bikes away, snuck into the house, talked briefly in my room about what we had done and seen. Callie finally wore out and went to bed.

All night I lay awake to look out the crack between the window and water fan, watching to see if Bubba Joe was there. I never saw him, and as the sun crept up, I became too tired to watch and fell sleep.

It was an uneasy sleep, full of the tall dark mill and its
creaking sawdust chute. The dancing light that might have been Margret. The black Frog King who should have left other women alone. Bubba Joe. The dead dog in the patchwork quilt. Richard’s daddy sobbing, saying a prayer.

Finally, there was the snaky black train, its bright light and shrill whistle, the chill wind from the engine and boxcars as they passed us by.

N
EXT DAY
, having slept poorly, I awoke early, checked all the locks on the doors and windows. There were no signs of anyone trying to break in.

I was checking the sliding back door when Daddy came in, pushing his hair back, wiping sleep from his eyes with a forearm.

He noticed what I was doing, studied me for a moment, said, “Sit down, boy.”

I sat down at the table across from him. Half expected him to ask me where I had been last night.

“Don’t let this Bubba Joe thing get to you,” he said. “He isn’t going to do anything to us. I’ll make sure he leaves us alone. Wouldn’t surprise me if the police have already picked him up. I’ll call them right after I have coffee and breakfast. Want to help me fix Mom and Callie and Rosy some breakfast?”

“Sure.”

While we prepared breakfast, I thought about last night. Maybe Daddy was wrong about Bubba Joe not being able to hurt us. A man like that, he might just come to our house with a knife in his hand.

Fact was, he may have been near our house last night, followed us to the tracks. I thought on that awhile, decided, not likely. With us on bicycles, that wouldn’t have been easy, so maybe he picked up on us at the sawmill road. He could have been there. Hiding in the sawmill after burning down the house where he and Rosy Mae stayed.

Or he hadn’t followed us at all. It was possible when we reached the railroad tracks he was in the vicinity. The woods were thick near the tracks and he could have been hiding most anywhere.

Whatever the case, I felt certain he had known who Callie and I were, and that he came after us as a sort of revenge for housing Rosy.

Rosy said he carried a knife or a razor, and I had no reason to doubt her. If he had caught us last night . . . Well, I didn’t want to dwell on that.

As I thought about all this, I took the bread from the toaster, buttered it and applied jelly on top of that. The actual cooking of sausage, boiling the coffee, I left to Daddy.

When it was ready, he said, “Go wake ’em up, tell ’em breakfast is ready.”

As I was heading out, Daddy said, “We ought to enjoy these summer days. School starts soon, and we won’t have these lazy times together. It’s good we’re all home at the same time.”

“Yes, sir.”

I started out again. Daddy said, “Son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I love you.”

I smiled at him, said, “You too,” and I went to get the women.

———

T
HAT AFTERNOON
Buster didn’t show. He had been coming in early, but when I expected him, no Buster. When it came time for him to actually be there, still no Buster.

Daddy said, “Where in hell is that sonofabitch?”

We were out on the veranda by the snack bar. I said, “He told me if he didn’t come in today, he was sick.”

Daddy studied me with those steely eyes, and for a moment, I thought I’d crack. He said, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I forgot. He said he wasn’t feeling well, and he might not be here, but I thought he would, and I just forgot about it.”

“That so?”

“Yes, sir . . . But I can run the reels.”

“You can?”

“Buster taught me how.”

“Good. Real good. You go set it up, son. Tonight, you’re the projectionist.”

As I started for the booth, I felt a sense of relief. Sure, there was a certain feeling of guilt, having lied for Buster, but I felt it was a good lie. What Mom called a white lie. Buster was my friend and deserved my support.

That night I ran a Randolph Scott Western, and it went well, with only a slight delay between changing reels. This was greeted with horn honking and yells, but I made the transition quick enough, and by the end of the movie I felt like a pro. Daddy even brought me out a hamburger, Coke, and french fries.

He set the meal on the little table by the reel machine, said, “How would you like to take Buster’s job?”

I didn’t feel so smart anymore, and I sure didn’t feel good.

“Oh, no, Daddy. I had trouble with that reel. I wasn’t too smooth.”

“You did all right. It was quick enough. Practice will make you better.”

“Daddy, I don’t think so. It’s Buster’s job.”

“You and that old nigger have gotten pretty tight, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stanley, you can do this job, and if you do it, I can pay you, keep the money in the family. And, frankly, I can pay you less. Until you have experience.”

“I don’t want Buster’s job . . . I wouldn’t want to do that, Daddy.”

“All right. I respect that. But I’ll tell you this. It’s only a matter of time anyway. He’s getting old. He drinks quite a bit. He’s surly. Kind of uppity, if you ask me. And you can run the projector.”

“He taught me. I don’t think he did it so I could take his job.”

“He misses again, doesn’t plan ahead by telling me, and I don’t mean leaving some message about how he might get sick, you are the projectionist. Understand, son? We have to work together. We’re family. I know you like Buster but we have to take care of us first. Way we’re going, we’ll have every starving, sad nigger in town working here at the drive-in. We can’t afford that.”

Daddy gave me a pat on the head and went away.

F
OLLOWING DAY
, I wanted to find Buster, but Daddy had chores for me to do. I spent the morning picking up paper cups, wrappers, and condoms with the nail-pointed stick.

I hadn’t forgotten Bubba Joe, but as it is with kids, it wasn’t on my mind as much now that I was out of danger and it was daylight and the sun was bright and hot.

Noon, I was trapped by Rosy Mae’s lunch. Cheeseburgers that were so good they made you want to cry.

While we ate, Callie reminded Daddy she had been exonerated, that he had beat up on Chester, and that Chester had been innocent.

Daddy said, “Well, he took the beating anyway.”

“But Daddy,” Callie said. “He didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, but I know his type. It’s just a matter of time. You stay away from him.”

“Any word on Bubba Joe?” Mom asked Daddy.

“Not yet. I’ll go by the police station later today. I have
some errands to run in town. There have been a couple rumors he’s been seen.”

“How do you know?” Mom asked.

“Because I check, dear. I didn’t see any reason to disturb you about it unless there was some finality to the situation.”

Callie edged an eye in my direction. We exchanged looks.

I ate the cheeseburger, then found my chance to slip off. As I was heading out the door, Daddy said, “You pick up everything?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d try to find Richard. Maybe we could go fishing or something.”

“You be back here in time to run the projector, just in case.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It looks like rain, Stanley,” Mother said. “Don’t stay away too long. It could really storm and you’d be caught out in it.”

“I’ll go in a store or something,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

“I suppose so,” Mother said, but she didn’t sound all that confident. She said, “I’m just being a ninny, but I worry about Bubba Joe too. You want to stay away from anywhere he might be.”

“And where would that be, Gal?” Daddy asked.

“I guess most anywhere.”

“That’s right,” Daddy said. “Maybe you ought to stay here.”

“He hasn’t anything against me,” I said.

Callie gave me a look. She said, “Maybe you ought not go.”

“He can be a mean man,” Rosy Mae said.

“I’ll have Nub with me.”

“That’ll scare him off, all twenty-five pounds,” Mom said.

I looked at Nub sitting on the floor. He was sleepy-looking, panting. He didn’t look particularly scary.

“May I go?” I asked.

“Hell,” Daddy said. “He’s right. We’re making a booger bear out of this Bubba Joe. He’s not going to bother whites. I’ll bet you on that. Be careful, son. And come home early. And Nub, you watch after him.”

Nub beat his tail on the ground, ran over to Daddy and licked his hand. Daddy gave him a pet, then I called to Nub and we went outside.

I had certainly thought about the Bubba Joe situation, and, of course, had Daddy known about the other night, no way he would have let me go.

As it was, Daddy thought it was just a problem between coloreds, and that Bubba Joe was just trying to intimidate Mom and Callie that day as they were an opportune target. I think Daddy thought because we were white we had a kind of immunity as long as we were within our community.

I knew better. I also knew if it was true, I was about to leave our community. But I had to see Buster.

I intended to ride my bike, but when I got on it, the chain slipped off and I couldn’t get it back on. I thought about trying to get Daddy to help, but decided against it. I didn’t want to stall any longer, and didn’t want Daddy to start asking questions or find some chore for me to do. Maybe decide it wasn’t safe for me to go. I started off toward town walking, Nub trotting at my side.

———

W
HEN
I
REACHED
town the sky darkened and I had that uncomfortable feeling of being followed. Just like the other night
when Bubba Joe had shown up. Or whoever it was. I had the same feeling now, but when I looked around I didn’t see anyone. There was just Main Street and buildings and lots of cars parked along the street.

I took a deep breath and kept stepping. Above, the sky continued to darken; it gave me the willies. I thought of turning around, but didn’t. Nub didn’t seem to notice the change in the weather, or rather he didn’t care. He was as happy as if he had good sense and a bone. But I did notice that from time to time he would stop, turn around and look back the way we had come, as if he too felt we were being followed.

That was not heartening.

I turned at Oak Street as it began to sprinkle, made my way toward where Buster lived. The sensation of being followed grew. But when I turned to look all I saw were the great oaks on either side of the street and the wind picking up leaves and blowing them about and two old cars rattling by with black faces behind the wheels.

I went past the men on the porch. They all waved at me, not bothering to torment me with comments. In fact, they looked friendly; it occurred to me their joking had been primarily designed for Buster.

We strolled until I saw the great billboard that hung over Buster’s house, the bright woman’s smile wet with rain and peeling as if everything she had been happy about was a lie. I went up on Buster’s porch and knocked.

He didn’t answer.

Me and Nub went around to the window at the back. I tried to look in, but didn’t see anybody. All I could see was the table with boxes of newspapers on it.