Five Smooth Stones (24 page)

"He didn't," said Evans. "I picked him up. And I speak literally." He walked into the room, his nose wrinkling, looking more absurdly young than ever. He took off the knit helmet and the mackintosh he was wearing, tossed them on the bed, and roamed the room, sniffing expectantly. Sudsy took David's light coat, said "God, one of these nature boys."

Evans was still sniffing around the room. "Look, Suds," he said severely. "Chicken?"

"You said you were going to the city."

"That's got nothing to do with it. Four chickens. Four lovely brown chickens and two large bags of French fries. Purchased last night in a moment of alcoholic intelligence. One-half of the purchase price being put up by one Evans."

"Beer?" said Sudsy.

"Certainly."

"Stoopid! I'm not asking you to have a beer. I'm asking you have you
got
beer."

Sudsy, pudgy young face earnest and intent, was wrestling with a card table. David took it from him, thankful for something to do with his hands. Evidently he would have to wait until after they had all eaten before pressing his coat and trousers. He felt awkward and out of place. He could not follow the quick banter of Sutherland and Evans, could not have joined in if his life had depended on it. Only the shyness he had felt the first day he sat in the Professor's high-ceiling study equaled the shyness he felt now. He could evaluate human relationships in the South; had known no shyness with any white he had known in the South, because, however friendly, there was beneath the friendliness a nonacceptance, an adherence to a double standard, a willingness to wait till Judgment Day, if need be, before putting any concept like the brotherhood of man to any test. Knowing this, he had felt no shyness, only inner contempt.

Today he felt acceptance, and did not know what to do with it. The talk between the two boys in the room was like a foreign language, different from the humor of his own people. This cross talk was barbed, open, not soft and subtle like that of the Negro with its hundred different meanings left unspoken, yet clearly understood.

The antennae of his mind searched for Crow, expected it, and did not find it. He was conscious for the first time that there was another side to the gulf that stretched between white and colored. If—and today he felt it might be true— there were actually whites who sought and wanted friendship with his people, they must find it difficult because they must not only bridge a gulf but must then climb a wall on the other side of the gulf even higher and more forbidding than the wall that surrounded them.

He set the table in the center of the room, heard Sudsy call "Catch!" and made a backhanded grab at a tablecloth.

"No!" Evans groaned. "Not a tablecloth!"

"Company," said Suds.

"This guy's just a student, for cripe's sake. Just a li'l ol' student like you and me."

"Look, my sainted mother sent me this tablecloth. If I don't send it home dirty with the laundry she'll think"—he shuddered—"I eat off bare tabletops. I hope you cats spill something on it."

They were no longer calling him "Champlin," by the time they sat down, but "David." When they said "Champlin" they used the flat, Anglicized pronunciation, not the French pronunciation of New Orleans. Evidently it was last names by the faculty always, and last names by fellow students until they became better acquainted. It was plain that the "Stoopid" he heard so frequently was a campus catchword, to be repeated
ad nauseam
until something else was found.

They ate with their fingers, in spite of the tablecloth, and talked little. Sudsy made instant coffee from water boiled over an electric plate, and a second pan of water was simmering when Sudsy called out in response to a low knock. The knock had been so gentle that David was unprepared for the appearance in the doorway of a mountain of blond student, taller than he by at least two inches, with wide, heavy shoulders, the open and inviting countenance of an old-fashioned kitchen clock, and a shock of tow-colored hair that grew much like Dr. Knudsen's, without let or hindrance or visible signs of discipline.

"Y'all eating?" The voice came from deep inside the massive chest, and the accent came from Georgia. Or, thought

David, it might be Alabama, but Georgia was more likely. I'm glad I got that chicken in me first, he thought. Hope to hell I can keep it down.

Sudsy was introducing the newcomer. "Martin," he said. "Chuck Martin—David Champlin."

A big-knuckled hand was held out to David, who fumbled with his napkin, then took it. "Sure glad you finally made it," said Martin.

David thought: I'd sure be glad if you hadn't. Mighty happy if you hadn't. Even happier if you'd drop dead. The wall between him and this cracker would shut out the others, too; leave him alone on one side of it, not wanting to embarrass Evans and Sutherland, angered and resentful at what he was certain would be the newcomer's attitude, in spite of the handshake.

Sudsy's next words arrested his thoughts abruptly. "You belong to ALEC, Champlin?" . "I—why—sure."

"This character who just came in was elected chairman of the campus chapter last week. If you're already a member you don't have to pay anything. If you aren't he'll get money out of you before you can put that chicken wing down."

He had thought when Chuck first shook hands with him that this was another of the many whites met in the South who are insistent they have no prejudices. Now he wasn't sure. Those whites used to come to the stinking, fetid back rooms where his grandfather and the other musicians were required to sit between sets; they meticulously, almost ritualistically, shook hands with every man in the band, not just the leader; they didn't ask who wanted a drink, had usually ordered drinks sent back before they came in, and more often than not it was gin, because there was a hoary legend that all colored people liked gin.

After the drinks came they usually took a chair and sat in attitudes of such relaxed and self-conscious familiarity that, even when he was a child, David had smiled at the phoniness. Their accents were usually syrupy-thick and drawling like Chuck's, depending on where they came from. And they talked. Judas Priest! how they talked! On and on, palsy-walsy as all hell. But they sure as hell didn't recruit members for ALEC.

Most of the other whites who came back of the stand, the foreigners or students from the North, were different. They usually stood until asked to sit, shook hands with the leader, and always asked first who wanted a drink and what kind before they ordered it, seeming embarrassed, many of them, at finding themselves in a situation that was humiliating to others.

Only the Prof and a few other whites from the North had such a gut-twisting hatred of the customs of New Orleans that they never came to the back rooms, but instead sought out the musicians in their homes, almost pathetically grateful when sponsorship of some responsible Negro gained entrance for them to Negro clubs, often foregoing that pleasure when they found the police could—and probably would—make trouble for the club if they were found there.

Now David tried to fit Chuck into one of these categories and found that he could not, and he waited warily for some word or action that would guide him. He could see now that the youth with the cracker accent was older than the others, perhaps by two years. Something else was becoming evident about the big, blond youth, and David recognized it for what it was because he himself had felt its discomforts all his life. It was shyness. This lumbering, straw-haired student from some small southern town was shy, and the shyness, David sensed, was because of him. Suddenly David thought longingly of his room, of his fireplace, and the unpacking he must do, and the peace without worry he would find there. He had enjoyed his time with Sutherland and Evans; now there was a Problem, and its face was as familiar as the face of his wrist-watch, and he did not want, just now, to be worried with it.

Tom Evans had moved to the studio couch, and was leaning back on his elbows, happy surfeit on his face. Chuck was sitting in the vacated chair, looking sadly at the ruins of four chickens.

"Skeletons," he said. "Nothing but poor, picked, li'l ol' skeletons. I've seen pictures of steers' skulls on the desert that had more meat on 'em."

"If you'd come with us last night you could have had you a chicken all to your li'l ol' self," said Tom.

"I told you why I couldn't." His "I"s were "Ah"s, and most of his intermediate "r"s and final "g"s were missing.

"There's no law says you can't bone up on geometry on Sunday."

"What y'all think I've been doing all day? Playing tiddley-winks? There's a law known as diminishing grades that says Martin's got to bone up on math every time the good Lord sends him a free weekend."

Sudsy turned to David. "There are half-a-dozen chicks on campus plotting against this character. No free weekends for Chuck. It's his age gets 'em. He's practically senile."

David pushed his chair back, stood up. "I sure appreciate the chicken dinner," he said. "Can I help clean up before I go?"

"You aren't going?" Something in Martin's tone swung David's eyes away from Sudsy and toward the big student. The other's eyes were direct and friendly, and there was an expression in them that matched the tone that had halted David.

"What about your suit?" said Sudsy.

"It looks pretty good since its been hanging there by the door," said David. "Maybe I don't have to—"

"Oh, Lawd!" Chuck's voice was low. "My damned mealy-mouthed cracker accent is sending you off." Chuck was shaking salt on a limp sliver of French-fried potato, not looking up now. "I sure wish I didn't have to go round explaining myself. They won't let me take public speaking and diction until junior year. Meanwhile I've got to watch every colored student comes into this place shy away from me, while I sweat to talk different." He turned to Tom appealingly. "I'm getting better, don't you think?"

"We-e-l-ll," Tom looked thoughtful. "You don't say 'haid' anymore. And I haven't heard you use a houn'-dawg analogy for a couple of weeks. As Beanie says, by the use of some effort and a little imagination I think I can detect a slight improvement."

"That's like saying somebody's an advanced case of adult infantilism."

Even if David had known what to say, he would not have had a chance. There was a sharp knock at the door, and he saw it open and a student lean against its frame.

"Well, hi-yah." Chuck's voice did not commit him to a welcome. "Come in, young Clevenger. We were just about to start talking about the likes of you."

"Whatever you mean by that," said the youth in the doorway. He was only slighter shorter than David, but he gave an impression of smallness, of bones under a thin layer of flesh that were delicate, almost fragile. His hair was darker than blond, lighter than that called honey-colored; his eyes were dark, set in a face whose framework was sharply defined, and over which the pallid skin was beginning to tauten in the pattern of maturity. He looked older than the others, but the petulant mouth was that of the perpetual adolescent. David estimated that the trench coat, sweater, slacks, and shoes he was wearing could well represent at least a semester's tuition.

Even without Chuck's greeting, which had contained a warning that David had picked up as quickly as it had been tossed out, he knew he would have felt the tightening in the pit of his stomach, felt that certain crawling of flesh over inner heat.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean by the 'likes of me,'" the newcomer said. His speech was soft, not slurred, like Chuck's, but low and well articulated. Virginia, thought David. Or maybe Maryland. He glanced toward Chuck, but the raw-boned student's face was blank. The boy in the doorway ran his eyes around the room, fixed them on David. "Our new Quimby?" he said.

"Champlin," said Chuck. "David Champlin—Randolph Clevenger."

A remote smile appeared on Clevenger's face. "Sorry you had to start in late, David. We heard you were ill and couldn't make it."

"No," said David. "It was sickness in the family."

"From what we've heard of you the delay isn't going to hurt much." There was no sarcasm in the words; the words were innocent, but the tone, thought David—the tone was guilty as hell.

"Are you looking for food? Because if you are we have a nice paper bag full of chicken bones." Sutherland tossed in the remark quickly. David looked at Chuck again. "—the likes of you" Chuck had said. It was the first time any white person had ever done anything like that. Things were coming too fast; again he felt the urge to leave, to go back to his room, the only damned student's room in the whole damned college with a fireplace, Sudsy had said; the only room in the world where there was a suitcase full of clothes belonging to David Champlin; the only room in the world where there could be, in a moment's time, a row of stuffed and ceramic lions and tigers belonging to Li'l Joe and David Champlin ranged on a mantel, and a typewriter bought by Li'l Joe Champlin open on a desk.

He decided that this time, much as he wanted to, he would not give way to the urge to get the hell out. Behind him he knew Tom was setting up a collapsible ironing board.

Sudsy spoke again. "If it's food you want, you can go home. And why doesn't anyone think to bring beer?" he complained. "Do I hoard? No. Sudsy shares. Do my friends hoard? Yes."

"I haven't got any beer," said Clevenger. "You could have it if I did. The way I feel today the sight of a glass—" He shivered. "What I came for was to beg an Alka-Seltzer."

"You will do it," said Tom.

Clevenger ignored him. "You have any, Sudsy?"

"Why would I have Alka-Seltzer? A temperate—"

"Stow it. What about Harry?"

"Harry, as you well know, is near teetotal."

"Champlin," drawled Chuck, "did y'all bring the necessities of life with you? Or did you just pack the nonessentials like clothes? Can you help this poor damned soul out?"

"Sure sorry," said David. He had plugged the cord of the iron into an outlet, and was laying the leg of a pair of trousers on the ironing board in the best Gramp-approved fashion. He accepted a wrung-out damp towel from Sudsy, smiled his thanks, then spat on a finger and tested the iron. There was no sizzle, and he stood waiting, holding it up. He glanced at the youth in the doorway and surprised him in what was close to a stare. David thought suddenly of the driver of the bus he had boarded in New Orleans in the spring. The driver had been trash, semiliterate white trash, and this youth was what David supposed some people would call an aristocrat. Gramp could have told him, right now, whether the boy came from Virginia or Maryland.
The knife them folks cuts your throat with's so sharp you don't even know what happened till you're bleeding to death.
Yet, catching Clevenger's eye now, he remembered the bus driver.