Five Smooth Stones (96 page)

see, and then the man had gone away, still laughing, and they had never seen him again.

I don't -want to go back, Gramp. I can explain it to the Prof. He'll understand. There's other colleges, good ones, Howard, Dillard.... Whatever you say, son. You a man now. Many's the time, though, I've said: "Lord, I can't do it. I can't get down to them docks today. Lord, I'm a sick man." But I got there, and I could somehow. Man can do what he's got to do. Something helps him somehow.

He was walking up the stairs now, first the good foot, then the other following after.
I
don't want Sudsy and Rhoda to meet us, David. I just want it to be us, David and Sara, coming into London town together.... You'll be there, David? Early, early...? God bless.

(Sara. Dear almighty God, Sara! Little love, smallest love. Wait for me, Sara. Wait for me, baby. Sara, little love. I'll be over for a day—an hour—just to see you. I'll make you understand. Sara, baby, love me.)

No one turned when he opened the door that bore on its ancient paneling the words "American League for Equal Citizenship." A girl whose creamy skin seemed lighter than it was because of the sleek, gleaming blackness of her hair sat at a desk facing the door behind a low railing that enclosed the central portion of the room. Even so early in the morning she looked harassed, tired, and there were purplish shadows under her eyes. She was speaking into a telephone, saying, "Keep trying, Operator; keep trying, please."

A blue-gray haze of smoke hung over the room, and every visible ashtray was filled to overflowing. The girl at the desk turned in her swivel chair and reached tiredly for the ashtray on an old oak desk behind her, emptied it into a waste-basket, and replaced it on the desk just in time to catch the stub of Isaiah Watkins's chewed cigar. Isaiah was half sitting, half standing, one massive haunch on the edge of the desk, talking to a tall, dark young Negro wearing black-rimmed glasses and a Brooks Brothers suit. A white man was standing off to one side, talking to another Negro, and although his words were indistinguishable David recognized the accents of New York. There was a window in the far wall, opposite the door, and silhouetted against its cloudy pane was the tall, spare figure of Brad Willis, talking to a man perched on its sill.

The girl at the desk noticed David at last and said, "Who did you want to see?" He shook his head. "I'll wait," he said. He walked to a window in the side wall at his right, and turned quickly at the sound of a familiar voice speaking his name. "Chuck."

"Glad to see you, dad. Mighty glad. You had me worried plenty. Thought you were leaving—" Chuck looked at David's face, and the words trailed off.

David said, "Remember the church basement in Laurel?"

Chuck nodded. "Sure."

"And the meetings? And Father McCartney?"

"Sure. I hear he's still there."

"Remember Nehemiah?"

"Not likely to forget him."

David looked around the room, then back at Chuck. " 'Were you there?'" he said. "That's all I could think of on the way up here. 'Were you there?' "

"I know," said Chuck. "It's a question I can answer after this week. I can say, 'Yes.'"

David turned from him abruptly and looked out the window, not seeing the people passing on the sidewalk below, seeing only the small yard of a shabby house opposite, and two fat brown children tumbling on its earth, looking like the Timmins twins of years ago. The voices behind him seemed softened by the thick haze of smoke, as the face of an aging actress is softened by chiffon veiling. A white-haired, dark-skinned man had stopped at the gate, and the two babies were standing on fat brown legs, solemn round eyes fixed on the old man's face.
One thing makes me want to fight, just one thing now I'm old and come to my senses, and that's seeing somebody hurt a young un or an old person....

Now, below him, the children had forgotten their shyness, and the white-haired man was carrying them, a child in one arm, and one on his shoulder. He was laughing, and the fat fist of the child on his shoulder was tight in the curly white hair. They must have known him, thought David; must have known he had strong arms and shoulders and that he loved them, because they were laughing with him as he walked up the steps of the house and knocked at the door and then disappeared within it.

You don't need me to help you get down them steps, son. Just hang on and don't overbalance yourself.... Will you still love me, David, in that hellhole I can't go to with you?... You have to go to him now, this last time, when he needs you.

... And 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 all his people.... "Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night..."

"This last time." There would never be a last time. Now he knew. Gramp, quiet in his grave, his heart stilled by fear, would need him always. Gramp had said, "Need—needs David—" Every dark-skinned man and woman, every Luke with crippled spirit, every small brown child, and every aging man and woman wherever they might be—on the streets of the southern cities, on the country roads, in the fields, and far into the bayou country and the swamps—each, each of them was Li'l Joe Champlin's need. Theirs were the feet in the muck, theirs the nostrils sickened by the stench, of putrefying white minds, the smell of hate. There in the spiritual filth and corruption of bigotry and oppression was the need of Li'l Joe Champlin, not across the water, not in far places.

Someone was calling to him, and he sensed the call had been repeated. He turned from the window and saw Isaiah walking toward him. As he limped to the railing he noticed that Brad had joined Chuck, and he heard their voices, low and serious.

He swung himself over the railing, took the big black hand Isaiah held out.

"David Champlin! Sure glad to see you. Sorry we kept you waiting. Whyn't you sing out you was here?"

"You were busy," said David. He could tell the other man's mind was on a hundred different things, that he was glad David had come, yet wished he hadn't; that with so many things pressing him there was no time, no heart, for the amenities.

"Thought you were long gone," Isaiah was saying. "Thought you was on a plane by now. Been so damned busy around here. Lawd!"

"I know," said David. "That's why I'm here. Heard you say a few weeks ago, didn't I, that you could use an extra hand?"

(Sara. Sara, baby. Smallest. Little love. Understand. For God's sweet sake, understand. Love me. Oh, my little love—)
Pharaoh's army got drownded—

Like hell it did. Like hell it did, Gramp; like hell it did, little girl on the schoolhouse steps. You can see its banners flying, hear its warriors shouting—everywhere. Like hell, like bloody hell it got drownded.

CHAPTER 61

Four people stood talking at one end of the big lounge in London's Crown Hotel in Russell Square—Hunter Travis, Dr. Clifton Sutherland and his wife, Rhoda, and a London doctor. Rhoda was saying: "It was good of you to come so quickly, Dr. Dutton. It wasn't actually an emergency."

"Not at all, Mrs. Sutherland. I'm delighted to help any friends of the Travises." The doctor turned to Suds. "There's precious little to be done, as you know, Dr. Sutherland. She must have sleep, of course, and certainly a little nourishment wouldn't do any harm either. The tonic I've prescribed ought to help that stomach. It's an old-fashioned mixture, but very effective."

"My wife and I have to return to the States very soon. We're glad she's in good hands."

"She's an extraordinarily healthy young woman. She'll land on her feet. It's difficult for any male, even a doctor, to put himself in the shoes of a young woman whose marriage has been called off abruptly and unexpectedly. I'll keep an eye on her for a while if she'll let me." He smiled at Hunter. "Your prescription was the best one, Hunter. Your mother. If you can persuade Miss Kent to stay with your family for a while, it would be splendid."

"The family will be back tonight," said Hunter. "I'll do my best."

"Excellent. There's a chemist at the corner. Run up and get these prescriptions filled like a good chap. She's to have the liquid before eating, two of the sleeping capsules tonight, then one a night for a while. You can explain to your mother. Miss Kent doesn't impress me as one who would remember to take medicine. And do try and get some tea and toast into her if nothing else—"

In the chemist's, Hunter fidgeted nervously, roaming the aisles, fingering bottles of mouthwash, boxes of facial tissue, finally buying two of the latter. Sooner or later Sara had to cry. Damn, she had to or she'd crack up completely. Maybe the sleeping tablets would do it, make her let go. He felt bruised and stunned. Emotional involvements were something he'd shied away from since boyhood. Now he was learning that the emotions, unused, could be like unused muscles— hurting like hell when exercising them could no longer be avoided.

Two items—capsules and a bottle of liquid. That was one thing he like about England. Medicine still came in liquid form. And most of it nasty. Gave a man a feeling of having his feet on the ground.

He hurried across the hotel lounge, said to Suds and Rhoda, "I'll bring these up to her—and make her take them."

Suds started to rise, and Hunter said: "Stay here, Suds. I think it would be better if I went alone."

The upstairs corridor looked ten miles long. He wished it were a hundred. Sara's door would be in front of him all too soon. He knocked, then opened it without waiting for a response.

Apparently she hadn't moved since they had gone downstairs with Dr. Dutton half an hour before. She sat like a statue in one of the big room's two armchairs. Like a statue, like a model posing for a painting, like a doll—like a dead woman, except for her eyes. He walked over to her, put a hand over one of her small ones that lay on the arm of the chair.

"Sara, luv—it's Dr. Travis."

"I know, Hunter." She moved now, stood up. "Sit here. It's the most comfortable." She walked to the bed with a curious stiffness, only her legs seeming to be in motion, then sat on the edge of it, straight and still again. She wore a downy cloud-blue robe, and the soft ruching of a blue nightgown showed at her throat.

He unwrapped the package, making a big thing of it, harrumphing and grunting like a cranky doctor, measuring out a teaspoon of the liquid into a glass, adding water, and putting it on the bedside table. "Drink hearty, me girl. It's good for those collywobbles." He picked up the telephone and ordered tea and toast.

"I don't want—"

"Quiet woman! Make that for two, please. Thank you."

"Sometimes you're so British, Hunter." Her voice had no inflection whatever; it was like soft fabric that had been gone over with a hot iron, all its softness made smooth and stiff and starchy. He wondered if she could hear it. If she could hear anything at all, even what he was saying, for the words that must have seared into her brain yesterday when David had called. "You're so British sometimes, and other times you're not." She laughed softly, and Hunter felt goose pimples start out on his flesh. "Tea." The laugh was a little louder now, and the goose pimples increased. "Tea. Oh, my God, Hunter, tea! God—God—God! Tea! Sudsy. Rhoda. That damned doctor. A nice cup of tea. That'll do it, old girl. A nice cup of tea and it all never happened."

He went closer, gripped her shoulders, shook her, not gently. "Stop it, Sara. It happened."

Suddenly her body went limp under his hands and she fell forward, her face against the rough tweed of his coat, her head heavy against him. "I know. I know." And still when she drew back and looked up at him her eyes were dry. "Why, Hunter? Why did it happen?"

He smiled down at her. "You want me to do what you ought to do? Break down and cry? I bloody well could, you know."

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I believe you could. You big phony."

He let go of her shoulders, frowning. "Drink that medicine, Sara Kent. It's horrid, judging by the smell. Do you good. Bound to."

He handed her the glass, and she held it in both hands, like a child, and drank it at last, wincing at the taste, then smiling for the first time. "Big bully, too."

Tea came and was set out on the table in front of the window, and when the door had closed behind the maid, Sara said, "Where are Suds and Rhoda?"

"Downstairs in the lounge."

"Thanks for keeping them there."

"Come over here and sit down, Sara. Drink this liquid in this pot. I won't name it, seeing as how it upsets you."

"Tea?" She walked to the table, still with that stiff, legs-only motion, and sat opposite him.

He poured her tea, adding cream and sugar, and she held the cup as she had the glass, in both hands, but did not drink until he said, "Sara, I'll count to five, then hold your nose and pour—"

"Big bully." But she took a swallow, then another. "All right, Hunter?"

"All right, infant. Only finish it. There's a lovely picture of Donald Duck on the bottom of the cup."

"Donald Duck's old hat. He was 'in' when I was a child. Was I ever, Hunter? I feel old. God, I feel old. A million years old."

He said nothing, uncovered the toast and handed her a piece, buttery and still warm. "Eat it."

"No—all right." She nibbled, then took a larger bite. "What was in that hell brew? I—it tastes good. The toast, I mean."

"Inasmuch as it's the first thing you've consented to bite into for twenty-four hours, and inasmuch as you upchucked half the night, I wouldn't give the medicine too much credit."

She did not speak again until she had drunk another cup of tea and eaten another piece of toast. Then she stood and walked to the window, looking down into the road below. She did not look at him when she said "Hunter, make Sudsy stop hating David."

"Sara! He doesn't—"

"Yes. Yes, he does. You know it. Yesterday—last night— he'd—I think he'd have strangled him if—if—"

"Suds is fond of you. We all are. It hurts him to see you hurt. Just as it does me and Rhoda. He's angry, yes. He'll get over it."