Such Sweet Thunder (26 page)

“Back a The Saw-Dust Trail.”

“Who was it?”

“Texicana. Him an’ ol’ Rhodes was gam’lin’.”

He walked on through the shoot where they said the dead man had been found. He looked everywhere for signs of blood. He was disappointed and wondered what he looked like.

That night at supper Rutherford read the article about it in the
Star:
“ ‘Wilbur Rhodes, thirty-one, Negro, five feet seven inches tall and weighin’ one hundred an’ eighty-six pounds, was shot to death last night in a alley between Independence Avenue an’ Admiral Boulevard, Charlotte and Campbell Streets, at approximately two-twenty
A.M
. by John Waters, forty-seven, Negro, with a forty-five-caliber revolver as the result of a quarrel. Waters is six feet three inches tall, has a dark brown complexion and an oval knife scar on his chin. He is also known by the name of Texicana. When last seen —”

The following Friday evening after supper, Rutherford unfolded the pages of the
Voice
and read:

“GAMBLER Slain in Death Valley! Ain’ that a damned shame!” He looked over the paper at Viola.

“Let me see,” she said.

“Here, look.”

“That’s awful!”

“Why,” said Rutherford, “why in the hell do they have to exaggerate like that? A man reads this paper an’ gits
fightin’ mad!
Waitaminute!” He turned to the sports page. “I knowed it, looka here. Hot damn! SATCHEL PAIGE! The world’s greatest pitcher to appear with the K.C. Monarchs after a successful exhibition tour of the South American Circuit!”

“Satch is the greatest!” Viola exclaimed, “They just don’t give him credit ’cause he ain’ a white man!”

“Yeah, he’s good, great —” Rutherford exclaimed, “but to let the
Voice
tell it you’d think that noboda else in the world kin play baseball but Satchel Paige. Just look! All you kin see: the greatest singer, the greatest dancer, an’ all that stuff. Make a man think the other hundred an’ ninety million people in this country ain’ nothin’. An’ don’t let somethin’ bad happen — like that lynchin’ down south last week. They make it so bad that you want to kill every paddy you see. A lynchin’s bad enough, but why put a picture of a bloody man with his eyes poppin’ out a his head on the front page? Don’ do nothin’ but fill a man up with hate. An’ what kin you
do!
You
gotta
go to work the next day. I say the only way to settle this race jive is to work with intelligence through the laws of this country! A man’s gotta try to understand these people, be friendly an’ git along with ’um or go nuts!”

Viola nodded in silent agreement, and looked at her husband with an expression of sincere admiration. Having finished eating, Rutherford fished in the ashtray for a cigarette butt, lit it, and puffed thoughtfully. Viola took another helping of okra, while Amerigo picked distractedly at his plate.

There was a knock at the front door. Rutherford went to answer it. They could hear him talking to a stranger:

“Does Mister Jones live here?”

“Sounds like Mister Harps!” he exclaimed.

“Why, yes,” said Rutherford, “Ah, I’m Jones.”

“Who?” asked Viola.

“It’s —” but Viola hushed him.

“Aw- you want my son!” said Rutherford, “Amerigo, here’s somebody — a gentleman — to see — to see you.”

He went into the front room, followed Viola.

“This is my wife,” said Rutherford.

“How do you do,” said the man politely.

“An’- and here’s Amerigo, my son.”

“You are Amerigo Jones?” said the man, smiling with surprise.

“Won’t you set-sit down, Mr. — I didn’t —” Rutherford pointed to the sofa.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Jones, I should have — Robert Jordan, editor of the
Voice
. You see, I was asked to visit you by one of our readers, and eh-eh-I decided eh- to take her advice. Ehhem. But let me explain, last week a man was killed here in this al-street, and we-we- eh-we reported it. A little too strongly for Miss Nancy Cunningham, I’m afraid. Ah-ha! ha! Yes …”

“Who’s that?” asked Viola.

“I never heard a that name, myself!” said Rutherford.

“Me, neither,” added Amerigo.

“Why, she’s a neighbor of yours!” exclaimed Mr. Jordan. “A very good neighbor, I can’t help thinking. She lives up the street there, at-uh-I just came from there. An old lady, dark-complexioned, with —”

“Aunt Nancy! —” exclaimed Amerigo.

“Cunnin’ham!” exclaimed Viola. “Ain’ that strange: All these years an’ I never even
heard
of ’er last name before!”

Amerigo smiled, finding it funny to have somebody calling Aunt Nancy “Miss Nancy Cunningham”!

“A man delivered this letter to our office this afternoon,” Mr. Jordan continued: “May I read it to you?”

Rutherford nodded assent, glanced at Viola curiously, and then fixed his attention on Mr. Jordan, who withdrew a letter from a large leather wallet that he took from his inside coat pocket:

“Ehhem …” extending the letter to the proper distance, and began:

“ ‘To the man who owns the
Voice.’
Eh, I think I should read it the way she wrote it. Mrs. Cunningham is a simple woman with, eh, not much education, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t express herself clearly — or forcefully! Eh …” He smiled to Viola and Rutherford and they smiled congenially back at him. “Eh, ‘To the man who owns the
Voice:
I’m just a ol’ lady, an’ I ain’ got no education, but I’m a God-fearin’, God-lovin’ woman, an’ I been a member of Saint John’s Baptist Church these thirty-five years, an’ I been livin’ in this here alley longer’n that. Now all that time, I seed ’um come an’ I seed ’um go, an’ I know one thing: As sure as there’s a God in Heaven there’s good folks in this world an’ there’s bad. But that’s only to half-blind sinner’s eyes like mines, to the Good Godamighty!!! They is all good! Now we got good peoples down here an’ we got bad. An’ we poor, sure enough! But we ain’ no badder’n nobody else. We got good law-abidin’ people who don’ cuss an’ drink an’ gam’le, an’ they send they kids to church
Sund’y, an’ gits old — older’n me even — an’ go to they Maker in peace. God bless they soul! An’ I don’ think it’s right for you to go ’round sayin’ in the papers for everybody to read that we’s all murderers and cutthroats when it ain’ so!!! Speak not evil aginst others that evil be not spoken aginst you!!! The Good Book says that! Now in our alley is a good family with a son. He got eyes an’ ears in his head. An’ he’s smart as a whip! Got the best manners of any little boy I ever did see — black or white! An’ his momma an’ poppa keep ‘im clean an’ lookin’ nice all the time. Them, too. An’ they got a telephone an’ a radio just like decent folks. You go visit ’um, an’ see if you done right, sayin’ what you said. I know the Lord’ll bless you, if you do. His name is A-mereego Jones — I know I ain’ spellin’ it right, but that don’ matter none, just as long as you understand who I mean — an’ he live at six-eighteen Cosy Lane on the third floor on the south side. Now that’s all I gotta say, an’ may the Lord encourage you to tell things better like they is. Miss Nancy Cunningham, Mother of Saint John’s Baptist Church.”

An irrepressible smile spread over the child’s face, and he felt the way he had felt when Old Jake gave him the star. He saw Old Jake holding it up to the sunlight, as Mr. Jordan sucked his teeth thoughtfully and said:

“It isn’t easy to run a Negro newspaper in this town or anywhere, for that matter, Mr. and Mrs. Jones — Amerigo. I was little more than your age when I started selling the
Voice
on the corners.” Mr. Jordan suddenly checked himself and continued in a more businesslike tone. “We have to compete with the
Post
and the
Star
. Because we issue our sheet weekly our coverage is usually secondhand. Even then we must deal with happenings of merely local interest to our people. We have to report the news and try to educate our people at the same time. And we have to
sell
the paper!” He paused significantly, his eyes fixed upon Rutherford.

“Yeah,” said Rutherford uneasily, “it-it sure must be hard all right.”

“Yes,” continued Mr. Jordan, “and I’m sorry to say that we sometimes get so involved with selling the paper that we overstep the limits of propriety.”

“How’s that?” asked Rutherford.

“We, eh, go too far.”

“Aw …”

“Of course, we’ll print an apology in the next issue, eh …” Mr. Jordan sucked his teeth again and rose to his feet. “Now,” smiling cordially and reaching for Viola’s hand, “I think I have taken up enough of your time.” Rutherford and Viola stood up. “I am very happy to have met you, Mister and Mrs. Jones, and you, too, eh-eh, Amerigo — that’s right, isn’t it? Yes, Amerigo,” taking his hand and flashing a restless indulgent smile upon him. Then he withdrew a gold watch from his vest pocket, glanced at it, and quickly put it back. “Well, Amerigo,” letting go of his hand, “how old are you?”

“I’m five years old.”

“Where do you go to school?”

“I’m in the kinnygarden at the Garr’son School in Miss Chapman’s class an’ Mister Bowles is the principal.”

“Well … well — do you, eh, like to go to school?”

“Yessir.”

“You’re right, son, an’ education is a great possession, and very necessary to our people. I’ll bet you want to be a teacher when you grow up.”

“Nosir.”

“No? What, then?”

“The president of Amer’ka!”

Rutherford, Viola, and Mr. Jordan exchanged embarrassed glances. Then Mr. Jordan’s face took on a dreamy, slightly sad expression, the
same expression as when he had spoken of how he had sold newspapers when he was a boy. He placed his hand thoughtfully upon Amerigo’s shoulder and said:

“Why not? Yes! Why not! A man’s no bigger than his dreams.…”

He shook their hands again and departed, descending the steps heavily, slowly. Like Bra Mo with a heavy chunk of ice on his shoulder.

“Unh!” cried Rutherford, no sooner than the sound of his footsteps had faded away. “Kin you beat that, Babe? A
bigshot
comin’ all the way down to the North End just to apologize to Amerigo!”

Viola nodded thoughtfully, gazing at her son as though he were a stranger. Rutherford, sensing her meaning, said: “Yeah, I know. Ain’ it the truth! He’ll be a man before you kin look around! Time sure does fly. An’ did you notice how nice he was dressed? Conservative! An’ how he put down them ten-dollar words in a simple way that you kin understand. Class, Jack! Boy!” to Amerigo, “You is
somebody!
Heah me!” His face broadened into a smile.

“Are!” said Amerigo.

“Yes, Mister President, but you wait till you finish with your college an’ all an’ git one a them Phi Beta Kappas or a Magna Cum Laudy before you start correctin’ your poppa! An’ even
then
I’d advise you to
whisper
so low that I can’t even hear you!” He grinned, Viola grinned, Amerigo grinned. Then after a pleasant thoughtful silence of several seconds, he said mischieveously, “Well, Mister President, I think it’s ’bout time for you to hit the hay, don’ you?”

He reluctantly nodded assent.

“An’ don’ forget to wash your hands and face an’ brush your teeth!” Viola added with a grin. He grinned back with a feeling of pride mixed with embarrassment and swaggered president-like into the kitchen. Meanwhile Viola and Rutherford went into the middle room and prepared for bed.

He said his prayers: “An’ God bless Aunt Nancy an’ Mr. Jordan an’ the president of the Unided States of Amer’ka even if he is a Republikin.”

“Do you think he really meant it? What he said?” Viola asked from within the darkness of the middle room. Amerigo listened eagerly.

“He prob’ly means it — in a way,” said Rutherford thoughtfully, “I mean deep down inside. But you know, Babe, it’s kinda like business, you have to be nice to the customers. He’s smooth, though, like a actor. Usta talkin’ to people. Ol’ man Mac’s like that. You know, sometimes one a the guests comes all frothin’ at the mouth about somethin’ an’
then the ol’ man turns on the charm! Has ’um eatin’ out a his hand. Gits ’um to talkin’ about theyself. An’ before you know it, they out a the office, feelin’ good, an’ don’ know what happened to ’um. Ha! ha! An’ then, an’ then five minutes after they done gone it comes to ’um.”

“They wake up!” exclaimed Viola.

“Yeah! What? They say, all mad agin. An’ then they go to cussin’ Jews
an’
Christians — an’ the whole human race! Ha! Ha! The ol’ man could talk a hustlin’ woman out a her money! Just the same, it does make you feel better when you speak out an’ the
Voice
answers back.”

On the following Friday the apology appeared in the
Voice
with an account of Mr. Jordan’s visit. Rutherford cut it out and stuck it in the family album, and everybody who visited the house had to read it and listen to his account of it.

The story rippled throughout the alley:

“What a
fine
young man!” he heard from the neighbors all around, as he went to and from school.

It rippled up and down the avenue:

“I hear you gonna be president, Tony!” said Mr. Fineberg.

It slid dangerously along the streetcar tracks and between the wheels of the screeching streetcar:

“Yeah, honey, that li’l darkie’s got more’n space between
his
ears!”

It slid all the way down Troost Hill to Garrison Square, and walked, skipped, hopped past the Field House and onto the school grounds where it gurgled in the laughing throats of the children.

“Did you tell that man you gonna be the presaden’, niggah? Hee! Heeeeee! Haw! Haw! Hee-haw!” Others took up the cry: “Heeeeeehaw! Heeee-haw!” their laughing faces matching the colors of autumn, as the story swirled among the falling leaves that were whipped into a fury by the north wind, which gradually grew sharper, in spite of the sun, which, though it shone brightly, grew progressively weaker, causing the tip of his nose to flush plumb red and his knuckles and fingers to tingle in his pockets.

“Cut the black and orange sheets of paper into strips as wide as the first joint of the index finger,” said Miss Chapman, indicating the first joint of the index finger with the pink-nailed thumb of her right hand.