Such Sweet Thunder (28 page)

“Aaaaaw,” protested Mr. Zoo. He sipped his beer. Then he lit the stump of his cigar, and had a fit of coughing that brought water to his eyes. Amerigo laughed.

“Boy,
git
out a here!” said Rutherford.

“I’m gone!” he exclaimed with an excited grin, his eyes and ears filled with the sounds and colors of France, of Shakespeare
an’ all them old cats
.

“Boom!” he shouted, slapping his hands against Aunt Lily’s screen. She drew the curtain aside with a grin, but then, upon seeing him, gave a little shriek. He stared back at her masklike face through the slightly frosted window. When she opened the door and peeped out he ran down the steps, suddenly frightened by the sad sound that escaped her lips.

At the bottom of the stair a little bunch of masked faces, grinning, laughing, and grimacing, frozen within the vibrant globule of sound that suddenly broke up, shattered into a hard raucous hail of sad sound: Tramp! Tramp! Tramping down the alley — through a France of sound that swelled and clanged as the huge pumpkin filled with black, brown, yellow, and white faces rumbled along the tracks in the middle of Independence Avenue, candlelit, eerie rays of light escaping from between its teeth.

Yellow streaks of soap appeared miraculously upon store windows, followed by a rush of fleeting excitement, as tiny feet splashed against the cold concrete pavement. The sharp north wind bit through the harlequin’s skin and deepened the tone of wine-red rouge on Carl’s cheeks, causing Toodle-lum to tremble and cry because the procession had left him behind upon the invisible border of the no-man’s-land marked by the indomitable range of Mrs. Shields’s voice:

“Toodle-lum! Aaaaaw Toodle-lum!”

“Yes’m! Yes’m.”

The nine o’clock whistle blew low and pathetically, its long eyelashes, longer than a woman’s, pressed against its cheeks, and little blue flames issuing from the jets of the gas stove flushed warm against his face, made his ears, fingertips, and toes tingle in the light of the bird-of-paradise lamp. Viola, Rutherford, and Mr. Zoo sat snugly around the fire talking quietly about the things that had happened when they were little.

“It’s about your bedtime, ain’ it?” said Viola. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes’m.”

“Come on to the back, Zoo,” said Rutherford. “Viola’s cooked a pot a chili. It’s for tamarra, but we might as well sample ’er.”

“Aw-heh heh heh, I don’t wanna —”

“That don’ matter none,” said Viola. “Amerigo, go wash your hands an’ face — an’ don’t forgit to brush your teeth.”

In bed, the lights out, the soft glow of the gas flames filled the room. He lay his head upon the “stage,” like at the show, only in the show there was the silver screen. No blue stars, black and white. He smiled in the dark, the smile deepened into a grin, he felt it, and then, before he knew it he was laughing Hee hee hee heeeee! — from within the belly of the big yellow pumpkin as it rumbled down the avenue.

“Amerigo!”

Viola stood over him. “Dreamin’ agin! Just laughin’ to beat the band!” She wiped the slobbers from his chin, and he settled back into a cooler, more vibrant, yet stiller sound, where he had once been before.…

All the masked faces fell from the branches of the trees. They lay in heaps at the bottom of the trees. The darkened hollows of their eyes stared up at the bright silver stars, which, glistening, fell down from the sky, covering the faces — ever so faintly, lightly, at first, and then heavily, thickly, until the glistening white forms that had been the faces merged into one another, and the falling whiteness thickened until the hollow eyes could no longer penetrate it. The snow fell and swelled into deep mounds around the trunks of the trees.

Clouds came. Viola and Rutherford spoke quietly, secretly, seriously, in the bedroom in the dark, while he pretended to be asleep.

“I don’ know what we gonna do for Thanksgivin’ dinner,” said Viola.

“Well,” said Rutherford, “if there ain’ no money, there just ain’ no money, Babe. Don’t look like ol’ man Mac’s gonna git up off a nothin’. Been to see ’im twice already. Keeps puttin’ me off. You think we could borra somethin’ from Miss Rose?”

“I’ll call ’er tamarra,” said Viola. “Maybe Amerigo could go by after school.”

In the silence that preceded sleep he thought about Thanksgiving: That’s when the Pilgrims came. He saw men in big black stovepipe hats and long black capes and tall black boots, trudging through fields of snow with double-barreled shotguns over their shoulders, carrying turkeys with speckled feathers, followed by strong stern women wearing
black bonnets tied tight around their chins and long black capes and black shoes with big square buckles on them, carrying corn and pumpkins and rabbits that the Indians had given them to big long tables with a lot of people, also dressed in black, gathered around them.

“And they were cold and hungry when they set foot upon the shores of the New World, but they were not discouraged,” Miss Chapman had read from the big book with the pictures.

“What’s dis-ker-iged?” he heard himself asking, suddenly surprised now by the image of Aunt Nancy in a long black cape, standing upon the shores of the New World!

“They didn’t give up,” replied Miss Chapman. “They were thankful unto the Lord for the blessings they had received, because they had lived through hard times.… So they prepared a great feast. And they prayed unto the Lord. And they shared what they had with each other and with their friends, the Indians, and the Indians shared what they had with the Pilgrims.”

“Pur’tuns,” he whispered.

Givin’ others some a what you got
.

STOP!
Miss McMahon stood in the kitchen door, gasping for breath.

“I’ll call ’er tammara,”
said Viola.
“Maybe Amerigo kin go by after school.”

“Now you take this,” said Aunt Rose on the following evenin, “an’ put it in your pocket.” She tied the knot with something hard in it in the corner of a handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket.

“What’s in your pocket, boy?”

“A star.” He took it out and held it up.

“Well, here. Put it in your other’n. An’ you go straight home an’ don’ stop for nothin’ or nobody. You heah?”

“Yes’m.”

“You hungry?”

“No’m.”

“You sure?”

“Yes’m.”

“Come in the kitchen. We’ll see somethin’.”

She moved heavily toward the kitchen on her swollen legs. He sniffed the pleasant trail of perfume that followed in her wake, while
exploring the flowered pattern of her blue print dress. The bonnet was of the same material, but trimmed with little white ruffles, like some kind of flower … or like cake. Instantly he remembered the big threeand four-layer chocolate cakes she sometimes baked when he came. Maybe she had a cake in the kitchen! But the speculation was immediately crowded out of his mind by the memory of other savory aromas: jars filled with pickled pig feet, chitterlings steaming in a pot or on a plate with pickle relish, baked opossum,
fried
chicken smothered in brown gravy and hot — piping-hot biscuits with butter oozing out the middle! A host of things that were good to eat came to his mind, so that by the time they had passed through the front corridor and entered the parlor, he was too hungry to notice the old penciled portraits of Aunt Rose’s mother and father that hung over the piano in the dark oval frames. He merely took quick unconscious glances at them now, and at the Victrola. RCAVICTOR! Fixing his eye on the spotted dog that looked into the big round thing that the sound came out of.

He thought of asking if he could play some records, but he suppressed the question in lieu of what he hoped awaited him in the kitchen.

She immediately went over to the stove and lifted the lid from a pot that gave off a delicious and vaguely familiar aroma.

“You set down at that table, young man,” she said with a cunning smile. “Didn’ your momma tell me that you don’t like no turnips?”

“No’m.”

“How come?”

“It taste bitter.”

“Is that so?” She stirred the pot, and then went to the cupboard and opened one of the little frosty glass doors and took out a plate and set it on the table before him and then took out the eating things from the table drawer. While she was thus occupied, he peeped into the bottom of the cupboard. It was filled with little cans and boxes with funny weeds and grasses and papers and leaves and all kinds of things to eat that made everything she ate taste so good.

But she doesn’t cook better than Mom! he thought. Still he had had a funny feeling when he had thought it, just the same.

Aunt Rose was again stirring the pot.

“There,” she sighed at last, “I guess that’s right now. I ain’ seen you in a long time, what the darkies been up to up your way? Seen where you gonna run for president!” She laughed in her reserved dignified way, her eyes flashing brilliantly: “Lawd, I almost died when I read in
the
Voice
about you bein’ president! That’ll give ’um somethin’ to think about! What’d that niggah from the
Voice
say when you said that?”

Miss Chapman says you ain’ supposed to say “niggah” he thought.

“He said, ‘Why not?’ ”

“Bet he sure was flabbergasted — so much sense from a little boy. An’ from the north wind, too!” She pushed the pot to the back of the stove, dipped into it with a spoon, tasted its contents, and said: “Gimme your plate,” in a casual tone. He gave her his plate. “But it don’ matter where you live or what your color is: Brains is brains! an’ gumption is gumption! There’s them that’s got both, an’ some with one or the other — an’ all the rest that ain’ got neither one!” She put the filled plate on the table. “Try that.” Her smile convinced him that she had some prank up her sleeve. He took a mouthful of the funny-looking sauce. Her eyes sparkled when he took a second mouthful, and a third, and a fourth. She smiled quietly, admiringly while he ate. Soon the plate was clean.

“Want some more?”

“Yes
, ma’am!
”

She filled his plate again and set it before him.

“I thought you didn’t like no turnips!” She arched the birdlike brow over her left eye.

“I
don’t
.”

“Aw yeah? You just ate a plateful!”

“Them ain’ no turnips, Aunt Rose! I
know
— ’cause turnips taste different. They bitter an’ in li’l round pieces!”

“Creamed ’uns ain’!” She smiled at him like a poker player with a royal flush. “Your momma just don’ know how to fix ’um!”

“She kin beat you! She’s the best cook in the whole world!”

“Who you think taught your momma to cook?”

“She just knowed it!”

“Don’t nobody
just know
nothin’, Mister Smart Elic. I taught your momma how to cook. When you git home you kin ask ’er.”

“I bet she kin beat you makin’ choc’lit cake!”

“When you comin’ agin?”

“When you gonna make one?”

“You might be president at that, you li’l fox!” She looked out the window. The sun was sinking. Cars streamed up and down the trafficway below. “It’s gittin’ late now, Amerigo,” she said a little anxiously, “you better be runnin’ along before the traffic gits too heavy.”

“Yes’m.”

“Got that han’kerchief I give you?”

“Yes’m,” feeling his pocket.

“Here, waitaminute, we better not take no chances.” She went to the sewing machine in the next room and opened one of the little drawers and fished around until she found a safety pin. “There, that’s better,” she said to herself, pinning the handkerchief to the lining of his pocket.

She opened the front door.

“Now, Amerigo, you go straight home an’ don’ stop on the way. An’ you stay on this side of the street, an’ if any of them dagos in front of Dante’s Inferno say somethin’ to you, you just keep on goin’. An’ cross the street at the corner, you heah?”

“Yes’m.”

“All right, you gonna kiss your ol’ auntie?”

He kissed her on her smooth cheek and inhaled deeply of the delicious perfume that exhumed from her soft bosom. He laid his head upon it and hugged her tight.

“That’s enough — li’l devil! Lawd! Sure won’t be long!”

“For what?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Now scat!”

She slapped him gently on his bottom, and he set out earnestly on his long trek home.

“Ain’t you hungry?” Viola asked when he did not ask for a second helping of chine-bones and black-eyed peas.

“No’m.”

“Did Aunt Rose feed you?”

“Yes’m.”

“What’d you have?”

“Turnips.”

“Turnips!”

“Haw! haw! haw!” Rutherford laughed over the evening paper.

“I thought you don’t like turnips!” Viola exclaimed. “I have to
make
you eat ’um!”

“Aunt Rose is the best cook in the w-h-o-l-e w-o-r-l-d!” He bucked his eyes in exaggerated innocence.

“Aw yeah!” Viola exclaimed.

“She does put down some a the best ’possum I ever ate!” Rutherford broke in teasingly.

“Who asked you?” Viola retorted.

“I bet she kin beat you makin’ raisin pie!” said Amerigo.

“Unh!” said Rutherford, “boy, you took the words right out a my mouth. Your grandma made a raisin pie like it was ’er birthmark! An’ g-o-o-d!”

“When you want it?” Viola asked, looking from one to the other. “Just when!”

The child laughed with glee.

“What’s so funny, you little witch!”

“Nothin’.”

“Well Sund’y’s Thanksgivin’,” said Rutherford, winking at him, “we’ll see if your momma’s learned to cook by then!”

“R-u-t-h-e-r-f-o-r-d Jones — we’re through!”

“Aw, you know I was just kiddin’, Babe!”

“Me, too, Mom, but those turnups shooooore was good!”

Thanksgiving day morning the reverend preached a special sermon, got happy, and made everybody else happy. Rutherford worked a little later than usual, and he stayed in the kitchen at Viola’s elbow nervously watching her prepare the dinner.

“What’s that?” pointing to some dried leaves on the table in a little sack.

“Now don’t you start botherin’ me, boy! Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ll never get through on time. What’s what?”

“Those?”

“Bay leaves.”