Such Sweet Thunder (24 page)

“Yessir.”

“WHAT?”

“YES, SIR.”

“Now git the hell to bed!”

Viola placed her hand on his cheek and kissed him as he went by.

“What! Me correctin’ ’im for stealin’ an’-an’ you kissin’ ’im!” cried Rutherford in a rage. “You want ’im to grow up to be a thief! I hate a thief worse’n the devil. The Lord hates sin!”

“He stole all right, Rutherford, an’ I guess he oughtta git a whippin’, but it ain’ really stealin’ the way you mean. It’d be different if it was candy or money or somethin’ like that. I
know
he didn’ mean to be stealin’!”

“Don’ you think I know that, woman? But he’s got to learn to respect other people’s property, that he just can’t pick up somethin’ ’cause he takes a likin’ to it. He take first one thing, an’ then it’ll be another, an’ the next thing you know, you’ll be lookin’ at ’im through iron bars! Momma damned near lynched me for a lot less’n he’s gonna git a beatin’ for! He’s gonna grow up
straight
an’ honest if I have to
kill
’im to do it. An’ I
would
if I had to! I’d rather see ’im
dead
in his grave!”

He lay in bed listening to the kids playing in the alley. He tossed uneasily and looked at the deep amber shadows that fell across the bed. It wasn’t even night yet! A burst of laughter came from beneath his window. They’re laughing at me.

The streetlight came on. The sky gradually grew darker, of a deeper blue color. Suddenly it was like velvet, like the velvet sky in the picture on the wall. A star! He pulled the sheet over his head and tried to sleep. A lump rose to his throat, tears ran down his face. I’ll go away. I’ll die! An’-an’ they’ll be sorry, too. The empty house loomed before his eyes in the dark. Old Jake looked in the window. He poked at the pile of rubbish with his staff. Amerigo looked up from the bloodstained newspaper into Old Jake’s face! He
was
dead. Old Jake picked him up and took him up on the back porch. Rutherford and Viola were sitting there. Rutherford on the orange crate and Viola on the chair. Miss Chapman and Mr. Bowles stood in the kitchen door, looking out and down at him through the screen. Old Jake placed him in Viola’s arms. She was naked and his face lay wet against her breast. She wept over him. Rutherford drew near and wept, too. Miss Chapman and Mr. Bowles wept from behind the screen door. Then Old Jake took him away from Viola and put him into a sack, and he fell a long dark way, through a sky full of stars!

He woke up covered with sweat. He heard voices in the kitchen. Viola was laughing about something.

They don’t care. He lay back down. He felt cold. He tossed and turned and finally doubled his body into a ball and went to sleep.

Givin’ others some a what you got … some a what you got … some a what you got …
Softer and softer:
Some a what you got
.

He stepped out onto the porch, his arms laden with Post Toasties and milk, bread and butter, wineballs and chewing gum. He laid them before the kitten, who half sat, half lay on the porch with a dull glaze in her eyes:
Here, kitty! Here, kitty
.

H-e-r-e kittykittykitty!

Kittykittykittykittykittykittykitty … kit … ty … k …

Tuesday morning was raw and smoky. The sky was filled with a blue haze. Like fog, but thinner. Like looking at the world from behind a blue curtain. The leaves were a whole lot of different colors — some on the trees, some on the ground, and some falling.

Night came coolly and heavily, like velvet. He said his prayers but he did not hear what he said. And when he closed his eyes the pictures came. He closed them tighter, pushed them down so deep that he could not see them or hear them. He sank heavily down behind the blue wall.

Wednesday morning he woke up too early. The sun shone too brightly in his eyes. He tried to go back to sleep, but could not, and then he finally went back, but slept too long. Rutherford had to call him twice. Twice he had to answer. He ate his breakfast, too full to eat. He dillydallied on his way to school, avoided the other children.

At school he could not look at
her
, he could not look at
him
. He arranged the colored leaves behind the cardboard basket that he was making.

The bell rang.

Already! Racing along the great Admiral Boulevard, trying to beat five o’clock home, with the amber sun in his eyes!

Again the bell rang. All was quiet. He looked out the window at a sparrow in a tree. He sighed enviously.

He scraped the dried clay from the palms of his hands.

“Time to wash up!” cried Miss Chapman. He looked up at the sound of her voice. He looked into her eyes. They were smiling tenderly. He let his eyes fall to the floor, and when the bell rang for the last time he did not look at her. Nor did he run, kicking cans, or laughing and talking with the others who ran on ahead. He drifted through Independence Avenue like a single solitary cloud. His eyes and ears passively perceived the colors, shapes, and sounds. They passed through his consciousness like smoke through the sky, like blue fog.

The sun shone bright and hard, almost like summer, and yet he felt as though he were walking through a winter afternoon. He shivered and felt cold.

The backyard was quiet. The bad smell from the empty house had vanished. Maybe he’s gone! He climbed heavily up the back steps:
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Ten times. He paused at the clean spot, half lay, half fell on the porch, bled at the mouth, and died.

The sun sank lower in the sky.

Bra Mo came through the shoot with a cake of ice on his shoulder. He came through the yard, ascended the porch steps, and rapped softly upon the screen door.

“Hi, ’Mer’go! Your momma told me to bring some ice this mornin’. Lawdy! I durn near forgot!” He smiled pleasantly and entered the kitchen, opened the icebox, took the water bottle out. and slid the cake in. “There!” he exclaimed with a grunt.

He looked up at him from behind the blue wall.

“You mighty quiet taday!”

He looked at the floor. The cracks between the boards made an imprint upon the linoleum, cutting brown parallel stripes through the fading flowered design.

“Well, sir!” Bra Mo exclaimed, “I guess
I’
d better be
goin’
. Hits too chilly here for
me!
Hee! hee! Winter’s here already!”

He watched him go down the steps, through the yard, past the empty house, and finally through the shoot. Then he went back into the kitchen and entered the toilet and waited for five o’clock.

Shortly before five Viola came home and began supper. Her eyes were quiet and serious. He watched her from the chair. Soon sharp savory odors arose from the stove.

“Set the table,” said Viola. “Your daddy’ll be home in a minute.”

He checked the sunlight falling across the threshold of the kitchen door. The cool stone flushed amber. He moved dreamily around the table, laying down the plates, the knives, forks, and spoons, the glasses and the bowl for the fried corn that Viola had on the stove. It gave off a sweetish smell that made him slightly nauseous. When he had finished setting the table he stood at her elbow.

“That’s a very expensive
ring
, a di’mond! I gave that ring to your daddy the first year after we got married. For Christmas. I don’ think you meant to steal it. I
know
you didn’. But what kin I do? Your daddy’s right in his way. You just gotta learn that you can’t take things that don’ belong to you.” Her voice trembled. “An’-an’ after Miss Chapman told you to bring it back! Whatever possessed you to do a thing like that?”

He looked down at the floor.

“Huh?”

She took his chin in the palm of her hand and gently raised his head. He looked up into her eyes. They blended into Miss Chapman’s eyes!
His lips trembled and tears ran down his face. He buried his face in her stomach.…

They heard heavy foot steps on the front stair.

“Shh!” — touching her lips with her forefinger and motioning for him to go out onto the back porch.

“Hi baby!” cried Mrs. Derby from her porch downstairs. “Ain’ seen much a you since you been in school. You been a good boy an’ doin’ what your teacher tell you?”

“Yes’m,” looking down at her from the orange crate. He could hear his father and mother talking in the kitchen, but he could not hear what they said.

Mrs. Crippa appeared at her kitchen door, looked out over the yard and disappeared behind the screen. After that Mr. Derby came out onto the porch and started tending to his crawdads. Amerigo looked on indifferently, straining to hear what was being said in the kitchen.

“To-ny! Toooo-ny!” He looked through the branches of the elm trees in Miss Ada’s yard and saw Miss McMahon standing on her back porch with something in her hand. “Ask your mother if you kin come over here for a minute, I’ve got something for you!”

“Yes’m!”

He opened the screen door and looked at Viola. Viola looked at Rutherford.

“Go on,” he said, “but git back over here in a hurry!”

A few minutes later he returned with a huge all-day sucker wrapped in cellophane. It had eyes, a nose, and a mouth made out of candied sugar.

“Aw, how n-i-c-e!” exclaimed Viola. “She sure l-o-v-e-s you! But you can’t eat it now, put it away till after-after,” avoiding Rutherford’s eyes, “until after supper.”

“Yes’m.”

“What am
I
supposed to be — the bastard around here?”

From the front room where he had gone to put the candy away, he heard his father’s angry voice: “Ain’ no use in you carryin’ on like this. I done said what I mean to do — an’ that’s
that!
”

They ate silently, without looking at each other.

“HI, VI!” Miss Ada called from her back porch.

“HI, SISTER BILL!” Viola answered, stepping to the threshold of the kitchen door, “I’LL BE READY AT SEVEN-THIRTY! WE GOT A LOT A BUSINESS TO DISCUSS TANIGHT!”

“YOU TELLIN’ ME! OKAY. I’LL BE SEEIN’ YOU!”

Rutherford rose from the table and went into the front room and settled down to his paper. Viola began to dress while Amerigo washed the dishes. When he had finished he went out onto the back porch and sat on the orange crate in the beam of light shining through the screen door. After a short while Viola appeared in the door dressed for club meeting. Miss Ada called from her porch:

“YOU READY?”

“YEAH, I’M READY!” looking solemnly at him. “S’long, babe.” She kissed him, and then descended the steps, crossed the yard, and unlatched the gate. She paused to look back at him and saw Rutherford’s tall shadow blotting out the light that streamed through the kitchen door.

“Hi, baby!” said Miss Ada.

“Hi,” he replied hoarsely.

“Hi, Rutherford!”

“What do you say, Sister Bill?” In a strained voice.

The two women disappeared through the shoot.

“Come in here!” Rutherford commanded. He went into the kitchen. “Sit down there on that chair.” He sat down. “You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?”

“Yessir.”

“Why you gittin’ a whippin’?”

“ ’Cause a the ring.”

“That’s right. ’Cause I don’ know no better way to make you feel the wrong thing you done. I want you to rem’ber this for the rest of your life. So that you won’ never do that agin.”

He stared at the floor.

“Take off your clothes.”

He took off his clothes.

“Now, go git me that strap.”

He brought the strap to his father, and then ran to the far corner of the kitchen, near the toilet door, covering his body with his arms and hands. Rutherford took a step toward him. He began to whimper. Rutherford raised the strap over his head, and he let out a soulful yell. Rutherford’s hand faltered. Then his lips tightened with determination, and he raised the strap again. He yelled again. Louder than before.

“Whap!” the strap resounded against the toilet door. He jumped up and down, ran to and fro, shouting and begging his father not to beat him. Rutherford raised the strap again.

“eeeeeEEEEOOOOOW!” he cried.

Just as Rutherford was about to bring the strap down a second time, a voice stayed his hand:

“Stop!”

Miss McMahon stood in the door. Her eyes flashed with anger. Her cheeks were flushed with patches of crimson color, while the rest of her face was waxen and bloodless. Her gray hair was awry and her lips were purple. She breathed with difficulty.

“If-if,” she gasped, “if you h-i-t that-that boy a-g-a-i-n, I’ll CALL THE POLICE!”

“What?” cried Rutherford, “I ain’ even TOUCHED ’IM YET! Why-why-why-whatdoyoumean — comin’ in
my
house tellin’
me
what to do with
my
son?”

He stood in the corner trembling, his face wet with tears. Miss McMahon looked at him as if to see what Rutherford said was true. He could not speak.
He ain’ hit me!
… he heard himself saying, but his lips could not utter the words, they trembled so. He only shook his head nervously from side to side.

“Git out a my house!”
Rutherford commanded.

Miss McMahon dropped her head heavily and turned toward the door, which she opened and closed carefully behind her. She moved slowly down the steps. No sooner than she had closed the yard gate than Rutherford turned toward him. He raised the strap and let it fall upon his legs. A hot stinging pain coursed through his body. The strap fell upon his arms, and the hot pain seared his trembling flesh. He cried and screamed, darted from one side of the room to the other, ducked behind chairs and under the kitchen table. But always Rutherford’s strap found him. With each blow he flinched and clenched his teeth, red and silver sparks flew within the darkness of his shut eyelids, giving animation to the pain that was not altogether unpleasant.