The Darkest Child (14 page)

“You sound just like Mr. Pace. I don’t like it when y’all talk like that, Junior. It makes me feel like y’all gon’ hate me if I make a mistake or something.”

“We won’t hate you. Everybody makes a mistake at some point. Everybody.”

“I know, but you just don’t understand. I practice hard to speak the way Mr. Pace wants me to speak, but when I come home from school, my sisters and brothers get angry at me for talking that way. If I slip and say the wrong thing at school, Mr. Pace corrects me. Sometimes it embarrasses me when he corrects me in front of other people.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s his job to teach you the right way, but in the end, you won’t have to satisfy him, or your brothers and sisters.You’ll have to satisfy yourself, Tangy.”

“You’re talking in riddles again,” I accused.

Junior laughed. I laughed with him, and it felt good—like nothing bad had happened that day. If I could keep him talking, maybe I would forget what Hambone had done to me, that my mother had dragged me by my hair, and that I was sitting in the woods in beer-soaked shorts.

“Junior, are y’all still planning to drink from the fountain at the courthouse?” I asked.

“We’re still talking about it, but there’s a lot of fear and dissension. The sheriff watches Sam every time he goes to town, and that’s making us all nervous. Some of the men think we should wait until school is out for the summer so we don’t bring any harm to the children. Some think we should take a large group of people with us, and others think we should have as few as possible.”

“I think you should take as many people as you can get.”

“Well,” Junior said, “we’re not agreed on much of anything.

Harvey thinks we should go on a Wednesday when town is nearly deserted, and now Hambone is trying to run the show. He thinks we should include women and children; others think it should just be the men. Sam doesn’t say much at all.”

“I think it should be on a Wednesday, and you should take as many people as you can get.”

“I agree,” Junior said, “but it’s up to Sam.We know there’ll be trouble, and we don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

“Tell me about your uncle,” I said, “the one they murdered.”

Junior’s whole demeanor changed. His body stiffened, and the veins in his neck protruded. I was sorry I had brought it up. I was about to apologize when he unfastened his satchel, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to me.

“It’s a hard thing to talk about,” he said, “but I think I can share with you what my heart has to say.”

I unfolded the paper and began to read:

Uncle Nathan

Why should I write of teardrops falling

Silently obscuring the timeless craft of a skillful master

Whose fingers traced stained glass of some distant morrow

Ancient souls foretold would never come?

Would that make sense to you?

How would you know that I am thinking

Of Uncle Nathan lightning fast fleeing thunder

Of hooded henchmen spurred on by that man-god Dionysus

Come from Olympus in a pickup truck

To show Uncle Nathan no black man will ever be

As swift as the Great Achilles?

How can I write of morning glories lovingly caressed

By dawn’s sweet dew or buds blooming from April showers

And not remember the severed head, protruding eyes

The lifeless body beside twisted vines of morning glories

As torrential rains washed away the blue-black blood

That men bleed when the soft light of dark midnight

Cannot shelter them from murder

As brutal as that

Of Uncle Nathan?

When I was done reading, I said the only thing I could think to say, “It must have been horrible.”

“It was.” Junior took the paper from me and placed it in his bag.

As he prepared to stand, I touched his arm to stop him.“Junior, I like your writing,” I said, “but I want to ask you about those letters you’ve been mailing out. Have you ever heard from any of those newspapers or from the NAACP?”

He stared at me for a long while.“No. I haven’t,” he finally said, “but I understand that some things take time. I’m a patient man. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t think they’re getting your letters. I heard that Mr. Nesbitt lets Chadlow and some of his buddies open people’s mail.

What if they’ve been opening your letters and throwing them away?”

Junior groaned and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he blinked several times, as if in denial. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” he repeated.“Are you sure about this, Tangy?”

“I’m sure, Junior. I won’t tell you who told me but you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

And then he was up and racing through the woods leaving me to wonder what he had written in his letters. I sat for a while longer, feeling drained, sorry that my words had been the source of such distress. He needed to know, though, so he could stop writing those letters for other people to read.

I remembered the dirty clothes waiting for me in the tub. I stood, brushed the dirt from my knees, and took the time to read Mr. Barnwell’s sign. It was just an old, stupid sign that meant nothing. I picked up a rock and threw it, hitting the board just above the crooked N. The rock striking the wood made a popping sound, then fell to the ground on my side of the fence. The sign did not waver.

Mattie and Tarabelle were sitting on the steps watching me as I came into the clearing. “I ain’t washing no mo’ clothes, Tangy,” Tarabelle called out.“Mama already fussing, saying how they ough-ta been done by now.”

“She oughta wash ’em, then,” I mumbled, and continued on toward the side yard.

There was no one on the roof. The ladder, my brothers, and their friends were all gone. Hambone’s T-shirt was floating at the top of the tub. I picked it up, holding it between my thumb and middle finger.Without a pause, I walked over to the outhouse, opened the door, and dropped the shirt down the hole.

That day was the beginning of the end of my friendship with Mattie. It was nearly three weeks before I saw Hambone again, and by that time, neither one of us gave a damn about a T-shirt.

twenty - one

P
aper fans flapped back and forth in an ineffectual attempt to stir a breeze. Summer was nearly upon us, and as I sat in the choir stand choking on the scent of mothballs emanating from Miss Janie’s peach-colored shawl, the fervor of Reverend Nelson’s sermon seemed to reach out and envelope Miss Janie. She slumped toward me, and I vigorously fanned her, hoping she would not go into a full faint.

I felt the Holy Ghost rising within me, urging me to sing. I wanted everybody else to feel it, too. If they were unmoved by Reverend Nelson’s sermon, I intended to shake them with song.

Reverend Nelson reached the finale of a sermon that had begun nearly thirty minutes earlier with Jacob and Esau. It had somehow wound its way through Huntsville, Alabama, and was now back inside the Solid Rock Baptist Church.

“How many of y’all think God is a blind God?” he asked, staring out at the congregation.“He sees all you do.You can’t fool Him, and you can’t hide from Him, but you will answer to Him. On that great day, there’ll be no hiding place. Great God Almighty!” He leapt across the pulpit and pointed a finger toward the deacons’ pews. “Deacon Hall, I found out that night . . . in Huntsville, Alabama . . . well . . . that you can’t fool God. Deacon Lawrence, I found out that night that God . . . well . . . ain’t nowhere close to blind.” He leapt in the opposite direction, waved his handkerchief over his head, dabbed at a trickle of sweat, then scanned the Mothers’ Board.“Mother Louise, I found out that night . . .well . . .that God can make you swallow a lie . . . umm-hum . . . before it rolls off your tongue. ‘What have you done with your life’?

“Church, y’all don’t hear me. I tried to stand up . . . umm-hum . . . face God like a man. ‘Look here, God.You done took my mother. Seems like you ought to be telling me why.’”

Reverend Nelson’s feet left the floor and he flew toward the choir stand. His gaze came to settle on me. “Sister Tangy,” he said, “I was too young to know that God did not have to answer to me. But He showed me that night . . . well . . . on the steps of that church . . . well . . . in Huntsville, Alabama. Seems like He placed a hand on my head, and said, ‘Bow down! Bow down! You can’t stand up and be a man until you answer to Me.’”

The reverend’s hand was on my head like a skullcap, and I felt his touch even after he had flown off in another direction. I glanced up to see him facing the congregation.

“God said, ‘Son, I’m about to give you a little glimpse of glory. I’m about to build me . . . well . . . a chamber in your heart.’ Great God Almighty! Some of y’all don’t know it, but God is busy— building a chamber in your heart as I speak.Welcome Him in, Church. Make Him comfortable.”

Freddie Baker swept his fingers softly across the piano keys until Reverend Nelson was seated, then the choir rose, and we began to sing. That was when Sam, Hambone, Maxwell, and little Steve Douglas, a nine-year-old boy from Fife Street, entered the church.

Hambone, wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt, led the way up the aisle to the pulpit. Sam and Maxwell followed with Little Steve, who wore a pair of cut-off pants and no shirt. He was sobbing, and Maxwell held his arm to keep him from bolting from the church.The disruption brought Reverend Nelson to his feet, and it silenced the choir. Finally, the music stopped.

“We’ve come here today,” Hambone said, spreading his arms to include the others.“We’ve come here today because it’s time. It’s time to wake up.We, the Negroes of Triacy County, are gradually being sucked back into slavery, and it’s time to do something about it.”

“Wait a minute, son,” Reverend Nelson said. “This is God’s house, and y’all need to respect it.”

“We respect this church, and we respect you,” Hambone said. “That’s why we waited until the sermon was over. I don’t think it’s gonna hurt these people to listen to me for a few minutes. It won’t hurt you, either, Reverend.We’re living in a town where Negroes are afraid to walk on the same side of the street as a white man. I think there’s something wrong with that, don’t you?”

He waited for Reverend Nelson to respond, but the reverend turned to Sam and said, “This is not the time or place. Let us get back to our service.”

“It’s the perfect time and place,” Hambone said. “That’s why we’re here.”

“That’s right,” Sam said, stepping up to the pulpit. “How long we gotta walk around scared we gon’ be lynched for saying or doing something they don’t like?”

Charles Hull spoke up from a pew near the back of the church. “They ain’t lynched nobody here for years.Why you talking like that, Sam?”

Reverend Nelson raised his hands for silence, then he said to Hambone, “Son, you’ve been up there in Chicago, and I don’t know what they’re doing up there, but we’re living in peace here. We don’t have trouble and we don’t want trouble.”

Most of the congregation agreed with the reverend, me included. Hambone waited until we had settled down, then he stepped up beside Reverend Nelson. “You’re a preacher,” he said, “and you don’t even know that the gates of Hell surround you.All of you are dragging the gates of Hell around with you every day. It’s those gates that keep you from setting foot on Meadow Hill without permission.You drag those gates with you to the back doors of every establishment in Pakersfield.Those gates make you step into the streets to get out of their way.And you want me to believe that you’re living in peace?”

“It ain’t so bad like you make it sound,” said Annabelle Swanson, her voice high-pitched and demanding to be heard.“We all know ’bout you, but we ain’t gon’ fight your fight.The Good Book tell us to turn the other cheek.We’ll get our reward in Heaven.”

“You got a reward coming, Miss Annabelle?” Hambone asked sarcastically. “You’re getting your reward right now. It’s the three-and-a-half cents a pound Mr. Butterfield paying you to pick his cotton.Your ancestors did better than that.They got a shanty, food, clothes, and shoes for picking the white man’s cotton.You people are going out the world backwards.”

It seemed everybody was speaking at once, canceling each other out. I stepped away from the choir and weaved my way through the crowd blocking the aisle. I saw Wallace sitting with a few of his friends, and I stopped at their pew.

“Have you seen Mattie?” I asked.

“I think she left, ”Wallace answered.“She was sitting over there wit’Tara a few minutes ago.”

Then Sam began to speak, and I stayed where I was to listen.

“Tell ’em what happened to you Tuesday, Mr. Matthew,” Sam called out, shifting everyone’s attention to Matthew Brogus, a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting, gray suit.

Mr. Matthew stood with his head bowed and his arms hanging at his sides.“Wadn’t nothing, Sam,” he mumbled.“Didn’t hurt nobody.”

“What about yo’ pride, man?” Sam shouted angrily. “Tell these people how you felt in that store. Tell ’em! Tell ’em how them white boys accused you of stealing. Tell ’em how you felt when they stripped you down to yo’ skivvies wit’ everybody staring.They wouldn’t never do that to no white man.And what’d they do when they didn’t find nothing? They just left you standing there naked and feeling like a fool.”

“Wadn’t nothing, Sam, ”Mr. Matthew repeated.

“Damn, man,” Sam said, dismissing Mr. Matthew with a wave of his hand.

Sam and Hambone exchanged glances, then Hambone said, “We’ve come here today with bad news.We came to warn you that while you’re singing and praying, these white people are busy figuring out ways to get rid of you.”

“That’s right,” Sam agreed.“We came to get Mr. Dobson.”

Gerald Dobson pushed his way slowly toward the front of the church.“What do I have to do with any of this?” he asked.

“According to lil’ Steve here, they done left you a customer out at Krandike Pond, Mr. Dobson,” Sam answered grimly.“They done hung somebody from a tree.”

A gasp of disbelief rolled over the pews, front to back.“Are you sure about this, son?” Reverend Nelson asked little Steve.

“I want my daddy,” the boy sobbed.“I want my daddy.”

It took some time to calm little Steve, and for the child to tell how he had been going out to the pond for a swim, how he had cut through the trees, the way he always did, and had seen the legs first. He had glanced up and seen a man hanging by a rope from a tree.

As the story unraveled, we began to get a picture of the morning’s events. Hambone and Maxwell had been out to our house to pick up Sam.They were just leaving and getting ready to turn onto Fife Street when they saw little Steve running through the field and screaming. He had nearly run straight into Hambone’s car. Without going out to the pond to verify what the boy had said, Hambone had put him in the car and had driven to the church.

Krandike Pond was about a mile and a half west of our house. It was out in the country near the dairy, and it would have made more sense for Sam and the rest to go out there before they came to the church, but I had a feeling Hambone had insisted on coming to the church first. It gave him the perfect opportunity to use the church as a forum for his civil rights crusade.

Miss Janie Jay finally managed to faint.Too many of the women worked over her—probably because they needed something to do. Most of the men had gathered around the pulpit. I saw little Steve ease himself away from the group and rush outside. Others were leaving, too, and I saw no reason for me to stay. Some man, someone I probably knew, was hanging from a tree. It didn’t seem real, and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe little Steve had made a mistake. That was all I could think about as I left the church.

Laura and Edna were walking a few steps ahead of me, and I lingered behind, not wanting to answer their questions. A tap on my shoulder startled me and caused me to trip. I turned to see Jeff Stallings.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I guess everybody is a little jumpy right now.”

I nodded.

“I saw you leave the church, and I thought I’d walk with you,” he said.“Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“You can walk with me,” I said.“Do you think there’s gonna be trouble?”

“There’s already trouble. If what they’re saying is true, I don’t know what might happen.”

“It’s awful, isn’t it? Are you worried?”

“No. I don’t have to worry. No one is going to bother me. I’m invisible.”

“You’re not invisible,” I said. “You might wish you were, but I can see you.”

“I know you can, but it takes special eyes to see me.”

His tone was as serious as Hambone’s had been back at the church, so I stopped walking and stared at this invisible boy who had stopped beside me. He was small-boned and of medium height. He had round eyes and a thin, upturned nose.There was a cleft in his chin, and right at the curve of that chin, the most perfectly round mole I had ever seen.

“Well, I can see you,” I repeated.

“You have those special eyes,” he remarked.

“My friend, Mattie, she sees you, too.”

“Your friend, Mattie, has an evil eye. Of course, she can see me.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Mattie sees ghouls, and witches, and vampires.”

“You don’t like Mattie?” I asked.

“I neither like nor dislike her,” he answered.“To me she is merely a friend of the prettiest girl in school.”

I felt awkward and a little embarrassed. I experienced a tingle of shame in my armpits, and I wanted to scratch, but could not with him watching me.

“I have to go,” I said.“My mother is probably wondering where I am.”

“I want to make sure you and your sisters get home safely. I’ll walk with you,” he said.

“We’ll be all right,” I said, turning to face the road ahead. Laura and Edna were far ahead of me now.

“Tangy,” Jeff called as I moved away from him.

I stopped and faced him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.“Maybe we can sit together at lunch. Maybe we’ll find out that this is all a big mistake.”

I nodded, but the sorrowful feeling inside of me told me that little Steve had not been mistaken. Somebody was dead. Somebody had been lynched.

M
y mother was not at home wondering where I was. I did not have to wonder where she was, either. Martha Jean would not stop telling me that Mama had left the house with Velman Cooper.

“Make her stop that!” Tarabelle demanded. “If you don’t, I’m gon’ hit her. I swear I will.”

I tried to quiet Martha Jean, but she would not have it. She sailed from the front door to the front window, over and over, pounding her fists against her thighs and signing in choppy, sporadic phrases.

“Mama.Velman. Car,” she signed.“Go away.Tell me.Tell me.”

“I don’t know, Martha Jean,” I said aloud, trying to assure Tarabelle that I was doing something.“Sit down, Martha Jean! Please!”

The expression on her scarred and healing face shifted from puzzlement to pain. It troubled me that I could not calm her, but it troubled me more that Mattie was sitting snugly in an armchair watching it all.

“Hurt here,” Martha Jean signed, then slapped her chest with the palm of her hand.

“I’m getting outta here, ”Tarabelle said in a huff.“C’mon, Mattie.”

I stood in front of Martha Jean. “Velman bring Mama back.

Short time,” I signed.

She stopped pacing long enough to read what I was signing to her, then she rushed over to the window again. She studied the road, came back across the room, and slumped down in a chair. She leaned forward, clasped her arms beneath her knees, and began to rock. I explained to her that I would go to the post office tomorrow after school, and I would ask Velman where he had taken Mama, and why. She nodded and continued to rock.

Martha Jean seemed to have forgotten all about Judy, who was awake and lying in her basket. She was such a good baby. She was never fussy and seldom cried. I lifted her from the basket and carried her outside.

In the side yard, Laura and Edna were making awkward attempts at jumping rope. They had changed from their Sunday dresses to shorts, and their bony legs and bare feet kept getting tangled in the ropes.They never questioned the unusual amount of traffic passing our house.

Tarabelle and Mattie came from the rear of the house, cut through the yard, and walked down the embankment to the road. I felt resentment that Mattie hadn’t bothered to speak to me. I swallowed my anger and played with Judy until Wallace and his friend, Shaky, came out of the grove of trees west of the field.