Five Smooth Stones (92 page)

David heard Peg say, "Hi, David!" Her voice was the same, deep and husky, but there was no drink in it, and he smiled into the telephone. "I'm so sorry," she was saying. "We're all sorry about Gramp. There's nothing we can do, I know, and I'm not going to be a stupe and offer. But I'm thinking of you."

"Thanks, Peg."

"David."

"Yes?"

"That's quite a guy I've got, isn't it? Quite a guy."

"You mean that shyster ambulance chaser sitting here drinking my good liquor?"

"That's the lad. That's my boy. Imagine still being in love with a dope like that after thirteen years. Keep your eye on him, David. He's a good kid and he's in strange territory."

"Haven't you heard? They've repealed Louisiana's Black Code statutes for the duration of his visit. I heard there was talk of freeing the slaves. He's lunching at Chez Francois in Baton Rouge tomorrow with his cousin."

"That'll be the day. Let me speak to the dope again, David. And, remember—even though we chasten you now and then, we still love you."

"Thanks again, Peg. Here's the dope."

When he brought the drinks in from the kitchen, Brad was leaning back on the couch, his head on one of Tant'Irene's antimacassars. "God," he said, "that's a relief."

"She sounded fine. I didn't want to ask before—"

"I know. People don't. She was drinking when I left day before yesterday. For once I left anyhow. There wasn't anything I could do, and my being there seems to make it worse sometimes. Know where she's been tonight? An AA meeting. God knows, she's been before—plenty of times. But there's always the hope that this time it will work. Or that something will." He sighed deeply. "Let's drink our drinks and go to bed. We're both bushed."

CHAPTER 59

Just before the funeral services David was able to have a brief talk with Chuck Martin, who said only, "He ran a good race, David; don't wish him back."

"Just for that trip," said David. "That's all. I wish he could have had that."

It was obvious fifteen minutes before the scheduled time for the services that there would not be enough seats for all, that people would be standing in the back and out on the small roofed porch of the French Quarter church, the church where Geneva Champlin had sung in the choir and that Gramp had attended whenever his wife could exert enough influence to make him. Inside the building Emma Jefferson was playing the piano, runs and chords, no hymn in particular, not minor in key but to David inexpressibly sad. In Gramp's notes, under the forks in the buffet, had been the words: "Emma J.—piano" and the organ would remain silent.

He sent Chuck inside, afraid no seat would be available, and when Hosea Jones approached him to take him to the family entrance he shook his head and went in with others to a seat reserved for him beside Pop Jefferson. He had always said he had no use for funerals, and wished there could have been a private funeral service for Gramp, yet now the sight of the packed church brought a certain comfort. How did he know, who in hell was he to say Gramp was not drawing comfort from it too? One damn sure thing, he thought, if Gramp does know, he's proud, but he wished it were over. He could not shake the feeling that Li'l Joe Champlin would not be at rest, not really at rest, until all the people had gone away, even his grandson, and he was in the quiet of the cemetery, with the dark understanding earth over him; that not until then would Joseph Champlin go free.

Preacher Jackson looked a little like the pictures David had seen of Martin Luther King; he was of the generation just ahead of David's, with a round, open face that would have been no more than benign were it not for the eyes and the strength and fire behind them. Hosea Jones had been right: this was no old-time ranter, out to stir a congregation to a fever pitch of emotion and hysteria. He saw, when they met, why Gramp had liked him.

The service opened with one of the hymns Gramp had wanted: "Take My Hand, Precious Lord," and from where he sat he could see the tracks of tears on Emma Jefferson's face, the light from a window catching the moisture on the brown skin. In spite of himself he found the hymn getting to him, undermining his control. Then Jackson began to speak, and David sighed with relief at the opening words.

"Our beloved brother said he did not want a long talk at his funeral. That was like him. Joseph Champlin was a quiet man." The way he said "was a quiet man" made David's skin prickle. "But it would not be right to pay our last respects to a great and good man without a few words in parting." Keep it few, thought David; keep it few; don't cross Gramp and me up now, when we're helpless.

Sara's red roses were there, a glowing, crimson blanket over the coffin. He fixed his eyes on them now, remembering that he and Sara had once talked about the barbarism of funerals, the senselessness of a lot of claptrap over stiff cold clay; then he smiled inwardly at her understanding. Whatever she might feel, she had instinctively done the right thing, knowing Gramp set considerable store by funerals. Her card was tucked away among the roses—"To Gramp with love from Sara"—and when Gramp's friends had stood at the side of the coffin in the mortuary the night before, and when they had filed past before the start of the services, he had seen curious fingers turn it for a better view, caught puzzled expressions on all the faces.

He could hear the minister's voice in the background of his thoughts about Sara. Then, like a bugle, it was commanding his attention.

"It is not easy to bring comfort to those who are bereaved. But we can say to the young son—for he was more son than grandson—in the hour of his grief, 'You have been blessed by the Lord because in your infancy and youth you were in the care of a great and good man.' "

The minister's eyes were full on him, soft, compassionate, but behind the softness and compassion there was the flash of something like a sword.

" 'And Samuel said unto Jesse, Are here all thy children? And he said, There remaineth yet the youngest, and behold, he keepeth the sheep.' "

Preacher Jackson turned to the congregation. "That was David," he said, and then his voice dropped to a whisper, but the whisper could be heard in the far corners of the room: "That was David."

There was no sound from the people in the crowded little church. Before there had been punctuating cries of "Yes, Lord!" and "Yes, Jesus!" and "Amen!" Now there was silence.

"We know, brothers and sisters, what Jesse's son did. We know that when he stood before Saul and offered to slay the Philistine that the king armed him with a coat of mail and put upon his head a helmet of brass. And David put them off and said to the king, 'I cannot go with these; for I have not proved them.' And then the Bible tells us that 'he took his staff in his hand, and chose him five smooth stones out of the brook, and put them in a shepherd's bag which he had... and his sling was in his hand: and he drew near to the Philistine.'

"And then the Bible says that when the Philistine saw the boy he laughed at him and mocked him and cursed him by his gods. And then said David to the Philistine "Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou has defied. This day will the Lord deliver thee unto my hand...' "

What was he saying? What was he getting at, this man who had promised there would be no funeral oration? The preacher's voice went on, and now it was ringing like a deep-toned bell.

" '... and he fell upon his face to the earth. So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone... but there was no sword in the hand of David.' "

David Champlin passed a hand over his face and felt the fingers trembling on his cheek.

"... the comfort we can bring now to his grandson is the knowledge that the last words that came from our brother's lips were of his need for the boy."

Need—needs David
—that was what Pop Jefferson had told him on the telephone.
You need me, Gramp, I'll come back. You know that. I can make it in a day.

Now the congregation found speech again, and the church was filled with the sounds of "Amen!" and "Yes, Jesus!" and "Lord, Lord!" and from somewhere there came the sound of a woman keening and more chanting: "Yes, Lord... Yes, Jesus... Yeyus, Jesus... Oooooooh, my Jesus."

"He did not call upon God because God was with him in his hour of fear, and I like to think he felt that hand of God."

The people were quiet now, and Jackson went on: "And I like to think—yes, I like to think that when our brother spoke the name of his beloved grandson he spoke not for himself alone but in the name of his father who died in the fire so many years ago, that he turned in his fear, as we must all turn, to our youth who carry in their hands the hopes of our deliverance. I like to think that Joseph Champlin cried aloud in the hour of his fear for
all
his people—" The black folds of the minister's gown were like dark wings as he spread his arms wide, and now it seemed that his words must carry far beyond the wooden framework of the church, must carry throughout the city, even to the steps of a schoolhouse —"Yes! In the name of
all
his people!"

He brought his arms forward, turned the palms outward to quiet the congregation: ""Thus saith thy Lord and thy God... Behold, I have taken out of thine hand the cup of trembling, even the dregs of the cup of my fury; thou shalt no more drink it again.'" He was whispering as he repeated: " 'Thou shalt no more drink it again.' "

Now Jackson gripped the sides of the pulpit, bent his head, closed lids hiding the fire, the sword, behind the dark compassion of his eyes. "Let us say together the psalm our brother asked for, that sustained him in life, that promises us all life eternal, the Ninety-first Psalm: 'He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.... He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust....' "

Oh, God, Gramp, couldn't you have done without it, couldn't you have done without the Ninety-first? Because Gramp was there, very small and gentle, like a small brown mouse or a small bird, nestled in the soft down beneath a great wing peering out, and smiling, smiling. David turned his eyes from the minister, looked toward the window, seeing nothing through swimming eyes but a blur. He fumbled for a handkerchief, then realized he did not have to hide his tears, did not have to blow his nose to disguise his emotion, because he was among his own, where grief was natural and not weak, where a man could grieve aloud and not feel shamed.

He heard no more until Emma Jefferson's voice rose above the choir: " 'Oh, Mary, don't you weep—' " The minister's voice joined hers. There was the wide water, shimmering dark, and there on its banks were his people, all black, all singing, and he heard his own voice above the others— " 'Pharaoh's army got drownded—'"

CHAPTER 60

It was all over. The body of Joseph Champlin was in its grave, beside Geneva's, and his grandson felt the release that comes with the easing of a heavy emotional burden. So long as that small, peaceful-looking scrap of brown clay had been above ground, looked at, exclaimed about in eerie whispers, David had felt that Gramp was still in bondage to the world. Now he was free. David could not explain why he felt this way, and did not try.

At the cemetery gate, as they were leaving, he turned to Pop. "Did you notice a tall, blond guy—white man, minister —around after the services?"

"He's around here somewhere, son, right around here. Seen him driving out, then seen him on foot after we got here. You don't want to come with me, I'll give you the keys to my car and go back with Ambrose."

"Thanks, Pop. I'd like to find this guy. See you later."

"You be there in time for supper, y'hear? Emma's counting on you."

The band was almost a block away now, and David gave an involuntary start at the sudden clear golden notes of the lead trumpet in an opening fanfare to "Walking with the King." The people along the sidewalks quickened their steps, and little brown and black and tan children ran to get closer. There was the sound of a motor revving up, and a motorcycle patrolman wheeled into the road, following the band, a check against disorder. David saw a white man with a camera in the crowd along the sidewalk, and swore under his breath. He told himself there was no point in going to jail for snatching the camera. The wonder of it was the guy hadn't come into the church, taken one of his Goddamned pictures of Gramp lying in the coffin.

" 'Sing hallelujah, I'm walking with the King, Praise His holy name—' " Someone in the crowd on the sidewalk was singing the words, and the sound of the band came back to him, clear, compelling, with a driving, syncopated up-tempo. They can play that, thought David. They can
really
play it. Ten years from now there wouldn't be any marches back from the cemetery, wouldn't be any second lines. Those were old men up there. There was a joyous, triumphant sound to the music. He supposed that in a certain sense it was cause for rejoicing, the march back from the cemetery; it was, in its way, a sort of freedom march, played for a brother whose slavery had never ended until then, to whom a man's name at the bottom of a Proclamation had been only a symbol of good intent.

He heard Chuck speak beside him and turned. "Hi, man! Sure nice of you to come."

"I wouldn't have not come; you know that. Say, is there anywhere around here we can go and have a cup of coffee? I mean together."

"Right across the road. I know them in there. Lots of whites go in there, curiosity seekers, photographers coming out here to get some shots of quaint Negro customs."

"Relax, chum."

Seated at a tiny table in the lunchroom, David looked across at Chuck. "Why are you here? Are you staying long?"

"I reckon I'm what you'd call on detached service, traveling round and about the South—because I'm a cracker myself, I guess—trying to pull our church and others into some sort of cohesive grouping, something that can speak with authority."

"You're not having any success." David made it a flat statement.