A Lesson Before Dying (14 page)

21

TWO CARS WERE PARKED
in front of Miss Emma's house, and as I got closer I saw that one was Reverend Ambrose's. The porch light was on, and though I didn't feel like going into the house, I thought I owed Miss Emma that respect. The door was shut against the cold, but someone opened it immediately when I knocked. The room was crowded and warm from a nice fire in the fireplace. People spoke quietly, but still it was noisy. Inez was there, and I asked her about Miss Emma. She nodded toward the bed.

Miss Emma lay under a quilt, her head resting on two pillows. The mosquito bar hung on the bed behind her. I asked her how she felt. She did not answer; only a slight movement at the corners of her mouth showed that she had heard me. Her eyes were looking at something that was not in the room. I left the bed and went into the kitchen, where most of the talking was going on. My aunt was in charge back there. As Miss Emma's best friend, she was taking over now that Miss Emma had taken to her bed. She was at the stove, making coffee. You could smell that Luzanne coffee all over the kitchen.

Reverend Ambrose was sitting at the table, talking to a couple of people who did not live in the quarter. He gave me a long, hard look to let me know what he thought of me, but I already knew what he thought of me, and I turned away from him. Irene, who was helping my aunt in the kitchen, asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee. I told her no, and I thanked her for taking over the class for me that afternoon. She told me she liked the practice; I knew that she wanted to be a teacher. My aunt heard us talking and turned from the stove to look at me. I could see in her face that she and Reverend Ambrose had had a conversation about me, and he had probably said some things that I would not care to hear. She told me that my food was on the back of the stove at home, but I would have to warm it if I wanted to eat. She had nothing else to say to me, and started talking to someone else. After I had been there ten minutes, I left the house.

At home, I lit a fire to warm the food—cabbage with salt pork and Irish potatoes. I didn't have to warm up the corn bread. I made a fire in my aunt's room so it would be warm when she came home, and I went around to my side of the house and lit a fire there too. By now the food was warm, and I went back into the kitchen to eat, sitting near the stove, with the plate balanced on my left hand. I had just finished eating and was washing the plate in the pan of soap water when I heard someone come up on the front porch. Vivian was at the door. We stood there looking at each other a moment, then she came in and took off her coat and galoshes. We went to sit at the fire in my room. I told her the only thing I could offer her was a cup of coffee. We went into the kitchen and warmed the coffee and returned to my room to sit before the fire.

“After I heard about it, I knew I had to see you,” she said.

“I was coming to you tonight.”

“I didn't know that.”

“I'm glad you came.”

We finished our coffee, and I took the empty cups to the kitchen and washed them. When I came back to the room, I asked Vivian to lie on the bed beside me. We lay on our sides for a while, then we lay on our backs, looking up at the ceiling. The room's only light came from the fireplace.

“When are you going back?” Vivian asked me.

“I don't know,” I said. “I'll have to talk to Miss Emma.”

“Have you seen her?”

“She's in bed.”

Vivian was quiet a moment.

“Is that her house up there where the cars are?”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to stop in, but I didn't know if I should.”

“You can go by before you leave.”

“You think I ought to?” she asked.

“I want you to,” I said.

“You think this is a good time?”

“I think so.”

“I don't want to cause any trouble.”

“You won't.”

“I want them to like me,” she said.

“They will. They'll have to.”

“I don't want it that way.”

“I'm going to live my own life, Vivian, and I hope you're part of it. If they like it, it's all right; if they don't, it's the same.”

Vivian was quiet. We were holding hands, lying very close together with all our clothes on.

After fifteen or twenty minutes, we got up and got our coats; Vivian put on her galoshes. Her car was parked behind mine in front of the house. I said that we could come back and get her car later. I told her to walk in my tracks so her galoshes would not get muddy. We could hear the people inside the house as we came onto the porch. There were more people at the house now, and we had to push our way through to reach the bed.

“I brought someone to see you, Miss Emma,” I said.

Vivian moved closer to the bed, and Miss Emma's face showed that she remembered her. Vivian leaned over and whispered something to Miss Emma, and as she stood back, Miss Emma's eyes followed her. I could see in her eyes that she was pleased with what Vivian had said.

I introduced Vivian to others in the room, then we went into the kitchen. Tante Lou was at the stove, pouring hot water over the coffee grounds while talking to Mrs. Sarah James. Mrs. Sarah greeted me, and my aunt turned around and saw Vivian standing there.

“Miss Louise,” Vivian said.

“Miss,” Tante Lou said, very polite. She really knew how to be polite to people when she felt they were interfering with something that belonged to her. She would not look at me.

Irene Cole came into the kitchen, and she gave Vivian the same look—polite but cold. I introduced Vivian to her. Vivian nodded and smiled. Irene nodded but did not smile.

“I can get you a cup of coffee?” she asked Vivian.

“Yes, thank you,” Vivian said. I knew Vivian didn't want the coffee, but it would have seemed impolite to refuse it.

With her cup of coffee, Vivian and I went into the front room again. Inez told me that Miss Emma wanted to speak to me before I left. I went back to the bed. Miss Emma nodded for me to sit down. The people who stood near the bed moved away so that Miss Emma and I could speak in privacy. Miss Emma looked up at me, and I was hoping that she would not start crying again. I felt very uncomfortable just sitting there.

“I don't know when I can go back up there,” she said. She was speaking slowly and just above a whisper. She was not trying to keep others from hearing her, she had cried so much that she could not speak any louder. “It's in your hands,” she said. “You and Reverend Mose. I just hope—I just hope—I just hope y'all work together.”

I looked away from her for a moment, but when I faced her again, I saw that those eyes had not changed. I told her that I would try, and I stood up and looked around for Vivian. She was standing with one of my students by the door to the kitchen. Vivian was nodding and smiling.

“That's your girlfriend, Mr. Wiggins?” the boy asked when I came over.

“Yes,” I said. “You're not trying to steal her, are you?”

“Sir?” The boy seemed surprised. “No, sir. She too old for me.”

Vivian laughed.

“You're about ready?” I asked her.

She took her empty coffee cup into the kitchen, and when she returned to the front room, she went to the bed to let Miss Emma know she was leaving. I saw Miss Emma watching her as she came back to me.

“I need a stiff drink,” I said, when we were outside. “You don't have anything in your car, do you?”

“Nothing,” Vivian said.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Seven-thirty, quarter to eight,” Vivian said, without looking at her little wristwatch.

“It's still early. I'll follow you back to town.”

“There's nothing closer?”

“Not unless I went to that back room at the corner store. You know I can't do that.”

It was dark after leaving the yard, and we walked single file and close to the ditch until we reached the cars. I opened the door, and Vivian got inside and rolled down the window.

“I'll see you at the Rainbow,” I said, and kissed her.

I showed her a good place to turn around, then I got into my car and followed her red lights out of the quarter.

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting at a table at the Rainbow Club in Bayonne. I asked for a brandy setup, and Shirley brought us a half pint of Christian Brothers, a small pitcher of water, a bowl of ice, and four glasses. We drank the brandy straight up from two glasses, then we followed it with ice water from the other glasses.

“I think Irene is in love with you,” Vivian said suddenly, as though she had been holding this in for a while.

“Just as my aunt is,” I said.

“The other way,” Vivian said.

“I can name about a dozen younger than Irene, and about that many old as my aunt, who are in love with me,” I said. “But I love only one woman.”

“Don't you think she loves you?” Vivian asked, seriously.

“Sure,” I said.

“I mean it,” she said. “I'm not playing.”

“I mean it too,” I said. I had taken a good shot of the brandy, and I was beginning to feel much better. “Irene loves me. My aunt loves me. The rest of them love me, too, and don't want an outsider taking me away from them. They want me for their own. Isn't that how it is everywhere?”

“I don't know anything about everywhere,” Vivian said.

“Of course you do,” I said. “It's the same old story. People want to keep a local boy for themselves, because they have so little.”

“I'm not talking about the people,” Vivian said. “I'm talking about Irene, with those big brown cow eyes.”

“Big brown cow eyes?” I said.

“You know what I'm talking about,” Vivian said.

“Don't tell me you're jealous of that child.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Is she in love with you?”

“Well, I'll be damned,” I said. I had taken another shot of the brandy.

“Well?”

“You still don't understand, do you?”

“I understand young gals—very well,” Vivian said. “Do you?”

“I understand young gals, and old ladies too,” I said. “And by the way, what did you say to Miss Emma to make her look at you the way she did?”

“I told her I was praying for both of them,” Vivian said.

“That's the best thing you could have said.”

“Get back to Irene,” Vivian said. “She's the one we're talking about.”

“Irene and my aunt want from me what Miss Emma wants from Jefferson,” I said. “I don't know if Miss Emma ever had anybody in her past that she could be proud of. Possibly—maybe not. But she wants that now, and she wants it from him. Irene and my aunt want it from me. Miss Emma knows that the state of Louisiana is about to take his life, but before that happens she wants something to remember him by. Irene and my aunt both know that one day I will leave them, but they are not about to let me go without a fight. It's the same thing, the very same thing. Miss Emma needs a memory. Do you know what she told me when I sat on the bed? That Reverend Ambrose and I should get along, and together—together—we should try to reach Jefferson. Why not only Reverend Ambrose? Why not only the soul? No, she wants memories, memories of him standing like a man. Oh, she will meet him soon, and she knows that. But she wants memories, if only for a day, an hour, here on earth. Do you understand?”

“No,” Vivian said. She wasn't drinking anymore.

“Let me explain it to you, let me see if I can explain it to you,” I said. The brandy was really working well now. “We black men have failed to protect our women since the time of slavery. We stay here in the South and are broken, or we run away and leave them alone to look after the children and themselves. So each time a male child is born, they hope he will be the one to change this vicious circle—which he never does. Because even though he wants to change it, and maybe even tries to change it, it is too heavy a burden because of all the others who have run away and left their burdens behind. So he, too, must run away if he is to hold on to his sanity and have a life of his own. I can see by your face you don't agree, so I'll try again. What she wants is for him, Jefferson, and me to change everything that has been going on for three hundred years. She wants it to happen so in case she ever gets out of her bed again, she can go to that little church there in the quarter and say proudly, ‘You see, I told you—I told you he was a man.' And if she dies an hour after that, all right; but what she wants to hear first is that he did not crawl to that white man, that he stood at that last moment and walked. Because if he does not, she knows that she will never get another chance to see a black man stand for her.

“And for my aunt and Irene it is the same. Who else does my aunt have? She has never been married. She raised my mother because my mother's mother, who was her sister, gave my mother to her when she was only a baby, to follow a man whom the South had run away. Just as my own mother and my own father left me with her, for greener pastures. And for Irene and for others there in the quarter, it's the same. They look at their fathers, their grandfathers, their uncles, their brothers—all broken. They see me—and I, who grew up on that same plantation, can teach reading, writing, and arithmetic. I can give them something that neither a husband, a father, nor a grandfather ever did, so they want to hold on as long as they can. Not realizing that their holding on will break me too. That in order for me to be what they think I am, what they want me to be, I must run as the others have done in the past.” I drank. “Now do you see? Do you see?”

“Will that circle ever be broken?”

I drank some ice water to chase down the brandy. “It's up to Jefferson, my love.”

22

WHEN I CAME INTO
the office, Paul looked me straight in the face. He knew it was unnecessary to search me and the food, but he knew he had to do it. He also knew that he should not even think about not doing it. It was as much his duty as wearing the uniform and carrying the cell keys. But you could see in his eyes that he was wondering why. Even when he was searching me and not looking in my face, I could tell by the light touches on my pockets that he didn't want to do it. And with the food it was the same. The chief deputy sat behind the desk, watching everything. To him, this was how things were supposed to be and how they would be.

Paul and I left the office and walked down the narrow, dark corridor.

“Where would you like to meet him?” he asked.

“In his cell. I don't mind.”

“You want me close by?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“It can be different now,” Paul said.

“I'll be okay,” I said. “How is he?”

“He's taking it pretty good.”

“Any changes?”

“I haven't noticed any.”

We came up to the steel door to the cellblock.

“You sure you want to be alone?” Paul asked again. “You're the first visitor since that news.”

“I'm sure I'll be all right.”

“If you say so.”

He opened the steel door. For the first time, the prisoners did not call to me or stick their hands through the bars as I passed. Some spoke quietly, others only nodded, but all were watching. Paul and I continued down the block to the last cell. Jefferson was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Paul looked at me again. I nodded to him to indicate that I was not afraid and that I wanted to be alone with Jefferson. The deputy opened the cell door and let me in, then he locked it and left.

“How are you, Jefferson?”

“I'm all right.”

“I brought you some food,” I said.

His body took up the bunk, so I set the bag of food on the floor near his head. I went to the wall and stood under the window.

“You need anything, Jefferson?”

He shook his head.

“You want to talk about anything?”

He shook his head again. Then he just lay there staring up at the ceiling while I stood watching him.

“What day it is?” he asked, without looking at me.

“It's Friday, Jefferson,” I said.

“Friday,” he said to himself. “Friday.”

He was quiet for a moment, then he slowly let his feet slide to the floor as he sat up on the bunk.

“Look like it's pretty out there,” he said, gazing up at the window.

“Yes, it's a nice day,” I said. “No clouds anywhere. Just blue.”

“You think it's go'n be like that that day?” he asked.

I didn't answer him. He was looking out the window when he said it. Now he turned to me.

“I hope it's the kind of day you want, Jefferson,” I said.

“The kind of day I want?” he said. “The kind of day I want? I never got nothing I wanted in my whole life. Now I'm go'n get a whole day?”

I didn't know what to say. He looked at me awhile, then he turned to the window again.

“Do you like fruit, Jefferson?” I asked him. “I can pick up some fruit—and some pecans. Ice cream? Funny books? Things like that.”

“I want me a whole gallona ice cream,” he said, still looking out the window. I saw a slight smile come on his face, and it was not a bitter smile. Not bitter at all. “A whole gallona vanilla ice cream. Eat it with a pot spoon. My last supper. A whole gallona ice cream.” He looked at me again. “Ain't never had enough ice cream. Never had more than a nickel cone. Used to run out in the quarter and hand the ice cream man my nickel, and he give me a little scoop on a cone. But now I'm go'n get me a whole gallon. That's what I want—a whole gallon. Eat it with a pot spoon.”

“I can bring you some ice cream anytime, Jefferson,” I said.

“I'm go'n wait,” he said. “I'm go'n wait. I want a whole gallon. Eat it with a pot spoon. Every bit of it—with a pot spoon.”

He smiled. He smiled now because he had something pleasant to look forward to, though it would be on that last day. And he would save it until the very last moment.

“You want to hear about the news from the quarter?” I asked him. “Stella had her baby.”

He looked at me, not as he had done in the past, in pain, with hate. He looked at me with an inner calmness now. Was it the ice cream?

“He favor Gable?” he asked.

“With little babies, they don't favor anybody too much,” I said.

“Old Gable,” he said, and smiled to himself. “Got hisself a baby, got hisself a baby.” Then I saw the face change. He was no longer smiling but staring at the wall. “We was suppose to go hunting that day.”

He had forgotten about the ice cream now. He was remembering the day he was supposed to go into the swamp with Gable but instead had ended up with Brother and Bear at the liquor store.

“Inez is still giving her fairs up the quarter,” I said, trying to get him back. “But no music. No dancing. She calls that sinning. If you want your music at a fair, you have to go down to Willie Aaron's house. Willie still has that stack of old low-down blues—Tampa Red, Mercy Dee—you know, all of them.”

He was not listening to me now. He seemed to be thinking about hunting with Gable.

“I just thought of something,” I told him. “Let me bring you a little radio. You can have music all the time. You can listen to
Randy's Record Shop
late at night.”

“Randy still on?” he asked, looking at the wall, not at me.

“Yes, he's still on,” I said. “I was listening to him just the other night. I have to play the radio low so Tante Lou can't hear it. These old people, you know—all music except church music is sinning music. So I play it so low I can hardly hear it myself.”

I laughed to make him laugh. But he did not.

“Do you want me to bring you a little radio next time I come?” I asked him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Edwin's has these little Philcos. Not too big,” I said, and I boxed my hands to show him the approximate size of the radio. “Would you like one of those?”

He nodded.

“I wish I had the money on me,” I said. “I'd go and get it right now.”

“Don't bother,” he said. He said it as though he didn't believe I really wanted to get it for him.

“I'll get it tomorrow,” I said. “I'll have them bring it to you so you'll have music over the weekend.”

He didn't have anything more to say. He sat there, not looking out the window now but looking down at the floor as if he had forgotten about the radio, about the ice cream, about Gable—about everything.

I wanted to leave then to go home for the money to buy the radio, but I was afraid that the sheriff and his deputies might misinterpret my reason for leaving so early. I was sure they were paying closer attention to everything now, and they would not have understood my reason for leaving earlier than I usually did. So I just stood there until the deputy came to let me out. Paul wanted to know how everything had gone between Jefferson and me, and I told him it was better than ever. He looked at me as if he felt I was making this all up, but I could see in his face that he wanted to believe it. I told him that I had promised Jefferson a radio and that I would go home and get the money to buy one. I would get it from Edwin's department store and then leave it here for one of them to take to Jefferson so that he would have music over the weekend. Paul thought it was a good idea, and he promised to give the radio to Jefferson himself.

I didn't go home. I thought I would borrow the money from Vivian, and I went back of town to the Rainbow Club, to wait until she got out of class. The bar was in semidarkness as usual, with the usual two or three old men, talking more than drinking, and Claiborne behind the bar, talking with them. I ordered a beer and told Claiborne about the radio. He didn't charge me for the beer, and he went back down the bar and spoke to the old men, then he came back with a couple of dollar bills and some change. He took five dollars out of an old leather wallet that had once been light brown but had turned almost black over the many years that it had gone in and out of Claiborne's back pocket.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll get it back to you sometime this weekend.”

The muscle in his left jaw moved a little to show that he had smiled. Then he jerked his head toward the wall, a sign that I should go around to the other side and see what I could get in there. So after finishing the beer, I went through the side door into the café. It was much more brightly lit than the bar, warmer, and you could smell the food from the kitchen. A man and a woman ate at one of the tables, another man sat eating alone at the counter, and Thelma was behind the counter, near the cash register.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said.

I had been at the Rainbow quite a few times lately, but I had not eaten in the café.

I told Thelma about the radio, and I told her that Claiborne had donated something. She listened patiently, and I could see her face changing from patience to sadness to anger. Her mouth tightened as she looked around the room at her three customers, then back at me again. The anger had left.

“You hungry?” she asked. It was stern, but loving too.

“No. I ate before I came,” I told her.

She didn't believe me. “I got some smothered steaks there,” she said. “Shrimps. Chicken.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You want to get that radio now?”

“I would like to get it this afternoon.”

“How much they cost?”

“About twenty dollars.”

“Eat something. I'll make up the rest,” she said.

She went back into the kitchen and dished up some rice and beefsteak and sweet peas, and she added a little lettuce-and-tomato salad and couple of slices of light bread.

“How much more you need?” she asked, after she had set the food down before me.

“About ten bucks,” I said. “But listen, Thelma, I can borrow some of that money from Vivian.”

“Vivian got them children,” she said. “I can let you have it.”

“I'll bring it back tomorrow.”

“I ain't in no hurry.”

I ate the food hungrily because I had not had dinner, and I sopped up the gravy with the light bread. Thelma watched me all the time. When I was finished, she put a wrinkled ten-dollar bill on the counter by my plate.

“Here.”

It was the kind of “here” your mother or your big sister or your great-aunt or your grandmother would have said. It was the kind of “here” that let you know this was hard-earned money but, also, that you needed it more than she did, and the kind of “here” that said she wished you had it and didn't have to borrow it from her, but since you did not have it, and she did, then “here” it was, with a kind of love. It was the kind of “here” that asked the question, When will all this end? When will a man not have to struggle to have money to get what he needs “here”? When will a man be able to live without having to kill another man “here”?

I took the money without looking at her. I didn't say thanks. I knew she didn't want to hear it.

I went out to my car and drove back uptown. Edwin's was not the best store in town, but it was the place where most people bought what they needed. Those with money went either to Morgan's department store or to Baton Rouge and New Orleans. As you came into the store, you saw clothes for women on the left and clothes for men on the right, all set out neatly.

There were no other customers, and just one saleswoman, who did not show much interest in me. I went to the back of the store, passing the furniture department, with its chairs, couches, beds, chifforobes, dressers, then the refrigerators and iceboxes, gas and wood-burning stoves, washing machines. Then there was the garden and yard equipment—hoes, rakes, shovels, ax handles, mowing machines, yoyo blades, cane knives. And at the very end of the store were the radios and kitchen appliances, on shelves against the wall. I saw the little radio that I had in mind, and I took it down from the shelf to look at it more closely and feel its weight. Then I set it back on the shelf and turned on the knob, and after warming up for a few seconds it started playing. I moved the lighted dial to get another station. I could find only three, two in Baton Rouge and one in New Orleans. But that was normal for this time of day. At night you were able to tune in others. You could get one as far west as Del Rio, Texas, and another as far east as Nashville. I was still listening to one of the Baton Rouge stations when the saleswoman came up behind me.

“You go'n buy that?”

I looked around at the short, stout, powdered-faced white woman.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Her face changed, but only a little.

“How much is it?” I asked.

“Twenty dollars, plus tax.”

“Do you have one in a box?”

“That one's brand-new,” she said. Her face was getting hard again.

“It's a present,” I said. “I would like one in a box.”

“I can put this one in a box,” she said.

“No, ma'am, I want a brand-new one,” I said. “If you have one.”

“You can have this one for a dollar less,” she said.

“I prefer a brand-new one, please, ma'am,” I said.

She snapped the radio off and turned away. She was gone about fifteen minutes. I knew it couldn't possibly take her that long to find another radio, but because I had refused to take the used one, and because she felt quite sure there was no place in Bayonne where I could find another one, she knew I had little choice but to wait until she got back.

“Brand-new one,” she said behind me. “Seal ain't even broke.”

“Does it have batteries?” I asked her.

“It's ready to play,” she said. “You want it?”