Five Smooth Stones (29 page)

"God damn," said Andrus. "God damn to hell a world in which the human mind is at the mercy of those who hate the color of the body that houses it!"

CHAPTER 22

The summons from Dean Goodhue came on David's second Friday at Pengard. "Four thirty at the Dean's residence," it read. From Sanders, one of the upper classmen in the big room that adjoined his in Quimby House, he received directions for finding the house. "He likes to have the interviews there," said Sanders. "Cozier."

It would be shorter cutting through the outer quadrangle, and David was halfway across when he saw Dr. Knudsen emerge from one of the buildings and come toward him. For the first time since David had known him the little professor looked worried, but his face lightened when they met. "Ah, David! You are headed for the dean's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have your ears burned? Professor Andrus and I have been talking about you. Don't look so concerned. What we said was good. If the dean does not keep you too long, come and have coffee with us. We are close by. I shall be interested to hear what is said, and my wife also. She asks about you constantly."

"Yes, sir. Thanks. I'll be glad to—"

Perhaps Sara would be there; that would be something he couldn't help. Meeting her there would be different from seeking her out, looking for her, knowing he was looking for trouble at the same time. He had stayed away from the recreation hall, knowing he was doing what Randall had warned against, that he was "holing up," but seeing no alternative that wasn't worse. He and Sara took no classes together, but he knew that sooner or later there would be a meeting; only the need for intensive study these first two weeks had prevented it so far.

A semicircular drive swept in front of the dean's brick-and-timber house, and the French door to his study opened directly on it, set between mullioned casement windows. Sanders had described it to him. He knocked, making it a firm knock, and when he heard the summons to come in he carefully scraped the mud from his shoes on the old-fashioned iron scrapers beside the door and took off his new knit cap before entering. He had been downright shocked by the manners of some of his fellow students: caps on in the house, not saying "sir" or "ma'am" to an older person or a teacher, things like that. Gramp would give 'em hell, he had thought, pure hell. If these were white manners—

When he entered he found himself looking directly at the top of the dean's head, bent over papers on a desk in the center of the room. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew; the minute the dean raised his head and reached for the pipe resting in the heavy ashtray, David knew. It wasn't ever something seen or heard; it was something smelled with a mental olfactory apparatus. He wondered why Nehemiah hadn't tipped him off, but Nehemiah saw Crow everywhere he looked, and the dean would be part of Nehemiah's general picture of the world, no better, no worse, than any other white.

"Ah, David," said Goodhue. Andrus had said "Ah, Champlin" that first day in class. Doc Knudsen was the only faculty member who called him "David." From the Doc, "Champlin" would have sounded forced.

You wants to keep breathing in and out you has to take it. Jes remember how ignorant they is.
Gramp had said that once, but a hell of a lot of good it did in a spot like this. Gramp had said something else, too, and that did help sometimes. He guessed it was from the Bible.
"Does it matter that they know thee not? I knows thee—"

Now, in this spot, the best thing to do after saying "Yes, sir" was to keep quiet, say nothing. Even if someone had held a gun at his head he wouldn't have smiled, and that was what this of ay character was looking for, hoping for; a nice wide, white-toothed nigra smile. Son of a bitch, he thought. You'll be dead and smelling even worse'n you do now before you see li'l David's teeth.

He sensed and grimly enjoyed that his own impassiveness had put the dean momentarily at a loss, made him flounder.

The dean looked down at his desk again. "Your reports," he said, indicating the papers before him. Now that he spoke as an authority he was in possession of himself again.

"Your reports," said the dean again. "They are surprisingly good."

David inclined his head slightly, said nothing.

"Surprising, I mean, when one considers that you entered late. You had help, no doubt?"

"From Professor Bjarne Knudsen in New Orleans. He tried to keep me caught up."

"Ah, yes. Well, I can find no fault with them, except your mathematics report. I have discussed this with Professor Ben-ford. He does not seem concerned."

Was there an ever so slight accenting of the "he"? An intonation that said plainly,
"He
does not seem concerned, but what could one expect?
I
certainly am." Whether or not this was true, the knowledge that Benford had not expressed concern was the best news he'd received since entering.

The dean shuffled through the papers. His pipe was resting in its accustomed niche in one side of his mouth, and small puffs punctuated his phrases. "There is a recommendation here—no—here—no—this is it—" He separated one paper from the others and leaned back, reading it, but not aloud, frowning as he did so. "About Greek. That you be permitted to add it to your first-year courses. It is submitted by your faculty adviser, Dr. Knudsen, and"—puff-puff—"apparently has the"—puff-puff—"approval of some of your instructors."

This bastard was lying, sure as hell was lying; David was certain the recommendation carried the approval of all of his professors, even Benford. The dean's sigh was commensurate with his size, and he removed his pipe from his mouth to give full vent to it. "I regret that I must disagree with these faculty members. But this seems ill-advised at the present time, and it is definitely a departure from established procedure. No, I cannot consent to this. Any spare time you have, any spare energy, should be devoted to strengthening your weaknesses, not on added studies." He laid the paper down gently. "You may, of course, elect it in your sophomore year."

David was not particularly disappointed, had begun to have doubts himself about carrying an additional subject. He had the textbooks with him; if he had time he could keep on fooling around with it unbeknown to anyone. But he'd fry before he'd tell this man that. He remained silent behind his one-way wall, neither smiling nor scowling, eyes set and still.

The dean replaced the pipe in his mouth, leaned back again, and said expansively: "So much for the details, David. You are doing well otherwise?"

"I think so."

"Do you have any problems?"

Now he could feel a smile coining on, coming on so strong he had to fight to keep it from showing. It wasn't the kind of smile the dean would like at all; it was a smile he'd probably be lynched for in some places. It said, "Problems! Yes, you son of a bitch, you!"

He drove his hands deep into his pockets and looked directly into Goodhue's shallow, slate-colored eyes, saw the wince and quick inner withdrawal he had seen in other whites when a Negro looked them directly in the eyes, measured them, hated them, knew them. Above all, knew them.

"No problems." He kept his eyes on the dean's face. "Not right now," he added.

Goodhue did not rise and go to the door with him, although David felt sure that this was one of his cozy customs following an interview. When David's hand was on the door handle, Goodhue said: "Don't hesitate to call me any time, David. My extension is one-two-three-four"—a throaty chuckle—"Ein-zwei-drei-vier—"

Now David smiled without opening his lips, nodded, said, "Thank you. I hope I won't have to bother you."

"My
raison d'etre
is to help, to advise. I try to keep in touch." A brief pause. "With everyone."

There was no point in answering, thought David; no point in wasting energy on this man. Doc Knudsen, Andrus, even Benford, a fellow wanted them to like him. This ofay son of a bitch? Let him alone. Let him hate and stay happy.
Do your business and get away. Don't mess with 'em more'n you has to. Tip your cap and get away.

He pulled his knit cap over his ears, closed the door gently, and limped down the drive, shoulders straight, erect. The sound of his parting "Good evening, Dean" had been almost inaudible even to his own ears.

***

Karl Knudsen stood beside the desk in his study listening to Goodhue's blandly deep voice on the telephone. The little professor was frowning fiercely, but his own end of the conversation was in quiet monosyllables. Goodhue said, "I will be frank with you, Knudsen. I've always found it best."

"Of course."

"I fear I cannot share your enthusiasm—and the enthusiasm of the others—for your protégé."

"No?"

"No. He is a type certain to create difficulties."

"Why do you say that? We have not found him so."

"Permit me, Knudsen, to say that I am better equipped to judge these people. They are, after all, our people in the South.... You said?"

"Nothing, Dean. Nothing."

"He appears uncooperative, and is uncommunicative to a point that borders on sullenness—"

"Champlin?"

 
"Yes."

"He is shy—"

"It is not shyness I am speaking of. No matter. There is no fault to be found with him from the scholastic standpoint, of course. Your brother did an excellent job. There is, of course, your own subject, in which he does not shine, but Benford appears confident this will be overcome, and I am not in a position to quarrel with his opinion."

"I am seeing Benford this evening."

"Good. Good. I called you, however, concerning the matter of the boy taking Greek. Really, Knudsen, it's out of the question. Quite out of the question. I explained this to him."

"I see."

"I hoped you would, old boy—"

"I do. Quite clearly now—"

"Good. Good. I only hope this boy won't let your side down. It's always a gamble—"

"Ja.
Thank you, Dean. I must go. Our doorbell is ringing. It was good of you to telephone so promptly."

"Quite all right. We should always talk these problems out together. That has been my policy—"

"Ja.
My wife is calling. I will see you no doubt at the faculty breakfast tomorrow. Goodbye—"

***

Eve Knudsen's greeting was warm and gracious. Man would be a fool, thought David, to doubt her sincerity; she just wasn't phony, not in any way that he could see. He was smarting with anger and resentment after his interview with Goodhue, and had tried to think of an excuse to stay away from the Knudsens' but could find none that would hold water. He didn't give a damn what that country son of a bitch with the fake English accent thought about him, not one damn. He knew. Nigger. He was a nigger again. It wasn't easy, he thought bitterly, being a human being on Thursday, a nigger on Friday, maybe a human being again on Saturday and a nigger again on Sunday. That was one of the darkest spots in the night of a colored person's life when he came away. A guy's guard was up all the time at home; up here he got conned into letting it down, and the knife was in him before he could see it.

He wondered about Goodhue and Benford as he walked to the Knudsens'. It must kill that white bastard's soul, just kill his soul, to have to look at a face as black as Benford's at faculty lunches and breakfasts, to have to call him "Professor," to know—this must be real pain, real hurtin' pain—that inside that black skull was a brain that had racked up degrees all over, even from Cambridge, a brain that made his own look sickly and puny.

Mrs. Knudsen led him into the living room and turned to him, laughing. "David! Would you be insulted if I said you've grown? Sometimes, after seventeen, young people resent being told that."

"No, ma'am. My grandfather says I'm plumping out—"

"Plumping out? Heavens, no! Filling in would be better. And"—she paused, became grave—"and, David, growing up. Definitely growing up."

"Yes'm. Guess we all do, sooner or later—"

"My husband will be here in a minute. He's on the telephone—" Before he could stop her she had gone into the hall, and he heard her call "Karl." He heard a telephone hung up, heard Knudsen say, not loudly but with an intensity obvious even to someone out of sight, "I am learning.
Ja!
I am learning now, Eve. You have been—"

Mrs. Knudsen's voice interrupted quickly. "David's here. We're waiting for you so we can have coffee—"

"Ah!" Knudsen hurried into the room, grasped David's arm with surprising strength. "Ah! Glad you came, David. I would not have blamed you had you stayed away."

"Why?" Eve Knudsen was frowning. "Why do you say that, Karl?"

"He has been with the Dean of Men. As I have just said, Eve, I am learning. Sit down, my boy, sit down; our coffee is not so strong and bitter as the Creole coffee—brr-rr!—but it is excellent. My wife has a certain touch with coffee—"

David sat on the deep wide-armed sofa where he had sat with Sara the first night he came to Laurel. He realized now that ever since he entered the house it had seemed somehow empty, that he had been listening for the sounds that would mean Sara was there, quick steps, a tumble of words.

The doctor sat down, then bounced up again, coffee cup in hand, and stood now before the fire. "I should not say it, not to a student, and tomorrow I will be sorry, but now I am ashamed and angry, so I say it. Damn the dean. I am sorry about the dean."

"Don't worry about it, Doctor. I mean, well, there's lots like him, all over—"

"The Greek—"

"Shucks, that doesn't matter. Honest, Doctor, I mean, honestly, I wasn't all that disappointed. Gosh, I've got an awful lot on my hands right now. Next year's time enough."

"Goodhue was nasty?" Eve Knudsen was looking at her husband, her voice low enough to hide any emotion that might lie behind it.

Knudsen shrugged. "I do not know. Was he, David?"

"Nasty? No, sir. He—he just said he wouldn't let me take Greek." How in hell could you explain to people like the Knudsens that characters like Goodhue were never nasty—in their sense of the word—to Negroes? That to be nasty or subtly unpleasant would be to put the Negro on a basis of equality. One was nasty and unpleasant to one's peers; to a Negro one was condescending and patronizing, dictatorial or violent, or even kind and gentle, but never, never nasty or sarcastic as one would be to a fellow white. David put his coffee cup down on the low table in front of the sofa and said, "Only, you see, I knew why. That was all."