Juneteenth (46 page)

The Senator’s head felt light now, his nose stinging from the acrid gun smoke and he looked skyward with a feeling that the sun had halted just above his head. I must get out of here, he thought, but when he tried to leave the howling spectators pressed in upon him so tightly that he was unable to move
.

Turning his back to the ring, he tried to break free to the rear, to make for the shade of the terrace. But now a woman whose luxuriant auburn hair showed beneath a white leghorn hat with aqua ribbon, pressed so closely against him that he could see beads of moisture standing out on the flesh beneath her deep blue eyes. The woman was smiling mysteriously into his face and he could see deep wrinkles breaking through her masklike makeup, revealing a far darker complexion underneath. Then the woman was saying something which he could not understand and as he bent closer to hear he was struck by a blast of disinfectant which was so repulsive that he turned quickly around and backed against the barrier. It’s Lysol, he thought, it’s Lysol!

Far to the rear of the crowd now he could hear a husky voice keeping score of the kills while a woman’s voice repeated the count in a shrill Spanish accent, lisping her words and shouting, “Olé! Olé!” as the firing accelerated in pace
.

Closing his eyes against the blazing scene, the Senator plunged the tips of his fingers into his ears, trying to escape the noise. His leg had begun to pain
again and he remembered the refreshment that he’d seen the waiters serving back on the terrace. He longed for a cold slice of melon, an iced drink, a bit of quiet. But now an explosion of shouting caused him to open his eyes to a crowd that was leaning over the barrier and shaking its fists in anger. Things had come to a halt; the guns were silent and no birds flying. At first he thought the object of the spectators’ disapproval was an official’s ruling, or some act of unsportsmanlike conduct by a contestant, and discovered instead that the anger was caused by a single slate-gray pigeon
.

Out near the rear of the ring the bird was moving over the grass with the grave, pigeon-toed dignity of a miniature bishop, its head bobbing from side to side as it ignored the shouting crowd
.

Close by, a man cupped his hands to his mouth, screaming, “Flush, you fink! Use your wings!”

“You’re wasting your time with that one,” another man called. “Where’s the official? Get him over here! Does he consider that a sporting bird? Who the hell bred the characterless fowl? I say who?”

“Now wait,” the sun-visored official called from within the ring. “These birds are the very best. Bred for the ring, for hand-launching and for the trap!”

“Then make him fly, dammit; make him fly!”

“It’s sportsman’s luck,” the man in the visor called. “Some fly, some fail
.

We put enough air under these birds to launch a rocket, so if one doesn’t fly it’s just too bad. The gunner simply calls for another bird.”

“But I want this one,” the gunner called, “he owes me a chance!”

“He’s right,” a small blond woman called, “make the buzzard fly! Up in the air … you … you pretentious pouter. We didn’t come here to see you strut or take a dive. Play the game, you’re stalling the match!”

But the pigeon continued walking
.

Behind the Senator the auburn-haired woman was in tears
.

“It’s a crime,” she called past his ear, “it’s a disgrace. It’s impotence, it’s perversity, a politics of evasion and calculated defiance….”

Bewildered by her analysis, the Senator watched a soft-drink bottle land and scud across the grass, just missing, and the pigeon turning aside but still refusing to fly. And now a man with leather patches on the elbows of his fawn-colored jacket aimed an empty cartridge hull at the bird, cursing when it fell far short of the mark
.

“Up, sir,” he called, “into the air!”

A tall man with the blue eyes and blond hair of a Viking stepped over the barrier and snatched off his yachtsman’s cap, rumpling it in his hands as he addressed the crowd in a cavernous voice:

“It’s against the rules,” he cried passionately, “the bird should fly! Damn his wings, it’s his
profession,
his identifying characteristic. The other two birds in the set took off, so why should
he
be a dirty third? If he continues this outrageous conduct I say let the officials give the gunner permission to lower his sights and blast the craven-souled varmit off the face of the earth!”

And before the Viking could continue a short-armed fat man whose eyes burned angrily behind yellow shooting lenses bounced into the ring carrying a gun with an exceptional length of barrel and, with cheek pressed tightly against the stock, got off a shot
.

The report was like that of a small cannon and the Senator could see grass and bits of earth fly into the air as the blast lifted the pigeon a foot above the ring. But instead of taking wing, the bird landed on its feet and continued forward, limping now and with a small spot of blood showing on its breast
.

For a moment the crowd was silent, gazing out across the ring in amazement; then the Senator’s ears were blasted by a howl of rage
.

Out in the ring the fat man was in tears
.

“Now I get it!” he cried. “Listen to me. We’ve been
betrayed!
Some anarchist has slipped a cynical gutter rat of a New York pigeon into our dovecotes. That’s what has happened. A guttersnipe!”

“A New York pigeon?” someone called. “What do you mean? Tell us!”

“Hell, it’s sabotage,” the fat man said. “New York pigeons are simply
awful! They walk along the subway tracks, hitchhiking on freight trains! They fornicate on the hoods of moving cars and in the air. It’s treason!”

Whereupon he snatched off a shoe and sent it arching over the ring where it missed the pigeon and struck a blue-clad handler, who now stood glaring at the crowd
.

“Now you watch it, Mac,” the handler called. “Respect the working man!”

“Respect?” the fat man called. “You don’t need respect, you get paid. And if you were earning your pay you’d give that stupid bird a goose so the match could continue. Instead, you make us speeches about the rights of labor!”

The fat man was speechless, his face red with anger, but as he started out toward the handler a tall distinguished-looking man in a white deerstalker hat grabbed him and pushed him back. Then, raising his arms for quiet, the tall man called out, “My advice is to have the handlers wring the bird’s neck and end this impasse! Anyway we look at it, a bird such as that is a disgrace. It’s a disgrace to the breed and to the sport. It’s a bloody spoilsport, a cringing dog-in-the-manger! A malicious nigger in the woodpile! A vengeful ghost at the wedding! In other words, it makes everything go bad. So I say, let’s wring its neck and immediately after the shoot I shall call a meeting of the governing board to see to it that in the future all such birds are blackballed….”

“There’s no need to wait,” the fat man said, slamming a shell into his weapon. “I’m taking no more crap from this walking …” But just as he raised his gun to fire a woman ran forward and knocked him off balance, causing the gun to discharge into the air and sending the fat man back with a bump upon the grass where he sat cursing the woman
.

Watching the pigeon’s progress, the Senator felt that he was suffocating. He felt responsible for the pigeon’s life but was unable to do a thing about it. Flashes of blue-green appeared above the ring now as the crowd began lobbing Coca-Cola bottles at the bird; but still the pigeon refused to flush, and its orange-ringed eyes seemed to look straight at the Senator as skirting both the bottles and the bodies of its fallen fellows it continued with calmly
bobbing head toward the barrier. He watched the iridescent play of the light upon its gorget and the slow pulsing of blood from its breast with painful feelings of identification which were interrupted by a sudden silence: The bird had stopped its stroll and was extending its wings
.

“Now! At last,” the Viking called, “he’s found his courage! He’s about to take off, so careful, Mr. Marksman
, careful!”

Thinking, Oh, no! Not after resisting this far, the Senator strained forward, seeing the pigeon’s head come around and the remoteness of its orange-ringed eye as the bird plucked a single feather from its breast and released it with a sharp snap of its head. Then with a series of short, hedge-hopping spurts it covered the remaining distance to the barrier, where it paused, calmly preening itself for a moment, then turning its back to the crowd it dived with set wings below the cliff
.

As the bird dropped from sight the Senator seemed to fall within himself and as he struggled to keep his feet he was aware of a sudden darkening of the sun and looked up to see, at the point where the pigeon had disappeared, a huge hatch of flies boiling up from the river and swarming above the ring, where once again the birds were flighting before the guns
.

Perhaps for you there’s safety in darkness, the Senator thought. Perhaps a few will have a chance….

But already the flies were thinning out, swarming veillike in broader circles, and as they boiled above the ring he heard an explosion of shrill cries and watched the arrival of a virtual aerial circus of small, sharp-winged birds
.

Pouring down as from a net released high in the sky, a flock of swallows began swooping and wheeling between the booming patterns of the guns as they attacked the flies, bringing the air alive with graceful motion. Plunging and climbing, banking and whirling, skimming and gliding, the hunting birds filled the air with high-pitched, derisive cries as they executed power dives and Immelmanns, sideslips and barrel rolls, and dazzled the Senator with the cool, audacious miracle of their flight. Not a single swallow was struck by the flying shot and as they swirled above the ring it came to him that the swallows were contemptuous of both the pigeons and the guns, and
there, braced between the auburn-haired woman and a man in a wide planter’s hat, and feeling the dank, steaming wetness of their bodies against him, he watched the swallows swoop and soar in grace, moving invulnerable among the doomed and falling rock doves….

Suddenly released and moving through the crowd, the Senator had started along the walk leading back to the clubhouse when suddenly something landed a sharp, stabbing blow to his right heel and he whirled to see a small handsome child who looked up at him out of a pair of intense, black, long-lashed eyes
.

Why, I’ll be damned, the Senator thought, it’s a boy! A fine, grand rascal of a little boy!

The little boy, whose hair was cut in a Buster Brown bob, was dressed incongruously in red satin pantaloons and white satin blouse such as were worn by a child in a painting by Goya, a copy of which the Senator had seen long ago in a museum. Even his pompom-topped white satin slippers were from another time, and behind him, attached to a silken cord which the boy held in a chubby fist, there stood a stuffed goldfinch mounted on a small gilded platform equipped with wheels
.

He’s been gotten up for either a wedding or a masquerade, but in either case he’ll steal the show. Dressed to kill, that’s the word, the Senator thought, resisting an impulse to sweep the child into his arms as he smiled down, saying
,

“Why, hello there! Don’t I know you from somewhere? You look awfully familiar….”

But instead of answering, the little boy darted around him, the goldfinch clattering on the walk as the Senator turned to see the child standing in the middle of the path confronting him with an expression of hostility which distorted his tiny face
.

“My, but you’re fast,” the Senator said. “What’s your name? Mine’s Adam Sunraider….”

Silently the little boy stuck out a small blue tongue, making an angry face, then with his fingers rigidly extended he thumbed his nose
.

The Senator laughed, thinking, My, but he’s aggressive. Probably a dissatisfied constituent … And yet he had a nagging impression that he knew the child, had seen him before even though he could think of no one with a child so young
.

“Look,” he said, leaning forward, “I don’t know what you’ve got against
me
but I’d like to befriends with such a fine young fellow as
you.
Shall we shake hands?”

His head shaking violently, the boy’s hands flew behind his back as he stared up at the Senator out of hot black eyes
.

“Very well,” the Senator said, “people who can’t talk probably can’t know very much. I’ll bet you can’t even say your father and mother’s name….”

The boy grinned, his face transformed into that of a malicious adult as he retreated a step and spat at the Senator’s feet, and in a flash his tiny hands were at his head, fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird as he stuck out his tiny blue-coated tongue and thumbed his ears
.

Thinking, How on earth could he have become so ill-mannered so young?, the Senator chuckled at the incongruity between the child’s size and his aggressiveness
.

“Young man,” the Senator began, “I have an idea you’re lost. Maybe you’d better try to take me to where you last saw your mother—” and broke off, taken aback as the child went suddenly into a frenzy of action
.

Turning his back and jackknifing forward, the boy was looking up from between his short legs and making a horrible face as he patted his backside and made nasty sounds with his vibrating lips. Then straightening, he raised his leg like a dog and with a grave expression on his face he thumbed the seat of his red satin pants
.