Such Sweet Thunder (49 page)

“— Land of the pil-grim’s pride! —”

In the cold snow and freezing wind at Plymouth Rock … Ford’s got the fastest pickup … where the Indians should then know to plant corn that they ate at Thanksgiving with the Indians eating at the same table because they were so good to them, giving them New York that used to be New Amsterdam when they gave it to the Dutch where Franklin D. Roosevelt comes from like the windmills and pretty houses with a lot a rooms that you kin see one through the other at the art gallery above the Indian room in the basement beside …

“From ev-ev-re — ee moun — tain-side … let free — dom — ring!”

With liberty an’ justice for all …
Like in England an’ France an’ Scotlan … 
d!

He let the noisy mob rush past him when the recess bell rang. He bowed graciously and allowed Miss Hunt to pass, casting a respectful glance at the gracefully turned calf that swelled up from her delicately wrought ankle. In the hall he stopped before the portrait of Frederick Douglass and studied the intense expression upon his patriarchal face, surrounded by white wiry hair that partially obscured the collar of his shirt. His brilliant eyes peered out from under fierce bushing brows, while his mouth clamped down upon the last definitive unalterable inexorable word:
FREEDOM!

Freedom!
He pronounced the word, screwing determination into his face: Freedom!

Next he stood before the quiet, gentle, clean-shaven boyish face of Booker T. Washington:

“Cast down they bucket where thou art …” said the great man.

“That’s from the Bi-ble. The reverend said that, that’s what Jesus tol —
d
the disciples who were fishermen first.”

He moved dreamily down the hall and stopped before the portrait of George Washington. He compared his face to Rutherford’s face:

He wasn’t the father of the country ’cause he wanted to be. — He had to … to be.… Wasn’t nobody else!
A wave of pity for the poor father of the country came over him, cold, ailing, alone, facing the invincible armies of the redcoats, caps, carryin’ all them bags at the Union Station.

He stared into the brilliant sunlight streaming through the great hall window, head high, chest out, arm resting majestically upon the banister, oblivious to the cries of the children playing outside. He was so intent on his meditations that he remained undisturbed by the vague fragmentary image of his new teacher Miss Hunt and Mr. Powell, who observed him from the shadowy corner at the opposite end of the corridor.

“Well, well, Mrs. Jones, it’s a pleasure to see you!” Principal Powell said with a warm smile the following evening at PTA meeting. Viola warmed herself in the educated glow of the light overhead, eyes sparkling, teeth sparkling, gold crown shimmering like the timber of Rutherford’s voice. “It’s a pity that
Mister
Jones couldn’t come out tonight.”

“Oh, eh, well, he was … wasn’t feeling very well, but I’m
sure
he’ll come next time!”

Aaaaaaaw! Amerigo said to himself, hearing Rutherford exclaim:

“What in the
heck
— am I gonna be doin’ down there with a whole bunch a women? Listenin’ to them little jokers answerin’ a lot a questions they done memorized already — just to make ’um look good for one night!
You
go — an’ represent me. I’m gonna lie up here an’ read my Shadah!”

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men!” said the Shadow. “The
weed
of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay!”

How does he
know!

“Well,” Principal Powell was saying, “I surely hope he’ll be able to come to the Beau Brummel’s Ball we’re giving next month. I have you on my guest list!”

“Oooooo!” Viola exclaimed, “that’ll be, I mean …”

The bell rang, titillating the night air with an enthusiasm that encouraged the multiplication tables to arrange themselves in proper order, the hemispheres to apportion themselves upon the globe as Mother Nature and the geographers intended, while the mountains, rivers, and lakes ranged themselves within the longitudes and latitudes that hummed very
discreetly in order not to give the lie to the satisfied expression upon Miss Hunt’s face as she eyed Mrs. Powell, her fingertips sweeping away the anxiety from her smooth cheeks, which were
lighter
, caressing the waves of her soft brown hair, which was
better
, while her shoulders alluded with a sudden backward thrust that
her
belly was not full with child.

Then the bell rang. And all the nice little boys and their nice little mothers and occasional fathers ran into the hall.

“Oh! why hel-
low
, there, Mrs. Jones!” cried Miss Fortman. “I suppose you’ve met Miss Hunt already?”

“Eh, yes —” said Viola, “I’ve been visiting Amerigo’s class, and I’ve — oh! — I’m just —
so impressed!
The children spoke so nice an’ — and … and all, and … I sure hope Miss Hunt isn’ having too much trouble with him. Eh …”

“Oh noooo!” Miss Hunt exclaimed. Affecting a whisper. “Amerigo’s one of my brightest pupils!”

“Oooooo!” Viola exclaimed.

“That’s
my
boy!” said Miss Fortman.

He looked at the night sky through the great hall window and caught a glimpse, by reflection, of Frederick Douglass’s angry face.

“Can I drop you off?” Miss Fortman was saying.

“Oh! Eh, no! No-no, don’t bother!” said Viola nervously. “It’s not far.
Really
, it’s —”

“Eh, in Cosy Lane.”

“Where’s that?” They flowed out of the building.

“It’s —” Viola began.

“Oh, here’s the car —” said Miss Fortman. “Please —”

The taxi driver jumped out and opened the door and they got in. Huge bars of yellow light shot through the windows of the schoolhouse and slanted into the asphalt floor of the playground as the building disappeared in the darkness.

When they reached Uncle Charlie’s junkyard, they turned into the avenue. Its funky darkness was agitated by a humid heat charged with the scintillating stench of whiskey, wine, gin, and beer-wet lips locked in tongue-hushing embraces and taut thighs grinding out the rhythms of the shameless dance for which God, in His anger, would punish them, in the end.

Viola wriggled nervously and now and then looked at Miss Fortman with a strained smile.

“Oh!” said Miss Hunt, “I’d certainly be afraid to walk down this street — even in the daytime!”

“It’s rough, all right!” said Miss Fortman, looking at Viola for confirmation. Viola looked at her hands.

Just as they reached the alley, the car slowed down. A man in a lumber jacket was kicking another man who lay doubled up on the ground in the stomach.

“You cocksucker! I’ll kill you!” yelled the kicker, and kicked his prone victim again. Blood spouted from the corners of his mouth and stained the front of his shirt. He motioned feebly for someone in the crowd to help him. The man kicked him again, in the mouth.

“Drive around them, can’t you?” said Miss Fortman fearfully.

“We live up there!” Amerigo said.

Viola poked him sharply in the ribs.

The fighting man pulled out a razor. A siren approached from the downtown end of the avenue.

The taxi driver backed agilely through the dispersing crowd, swerved around in front of the advancing streetcar, and shot up Campbell Hill.

“We kin go up to the boulevard, an’ then go down the alley from the other way!” he said, catching sight, at the turn, of the tears in his mother’s eyes.

“Where
is
it!” asked Miss Fortman impatiently. “I hope we don’t get a flat tire,” looking suspiciously at the broken glass that glittered between the crevices of the cobblestones.

Like stars!

He imagined that they were driving through the Milky Way. At the avenue end lay a smoldering heap of red glowing fallen stars. In their midst a man was cutting another man to death.

The squad car had already arrived. Its siren was still shrieking, even though the policemen had already gotten out of the car and were swinging their clubs furiously. But gradually the siren ceased, and the silence was filled by excited exclamations up and down the alley. Doors slammed to, eyes peeped from behind still curtains, the questions: Who? What? Where at? How? swallowed up by the sound of another siren approaching, just a few seconds before the long white ambulance pulled into the mouth of the alley.

“You kin back up into Mister Jackson’s yard,” he said, “an’ then turn up the alley, an’ git out thataway!”

“Thanks
awfully
much for bringin’ us home!” said Viola, “I sure hope —”

“You’re welcome,” said Miss Fortman. “Well, we’ll be seeing you.”

“Good night, Mrs. Jones,” said Miss Hunt. “Good night, Amerigo.”

“G’night!”

They entered the front room. Rutherford stirred in his chair where he had been dozing.

“Unh! I must a dozed off a minute, there. How was it?”

Viola did not look at him. She went into the middle room and took off her shoes.

“Well?”

“It was very nice,” Her voice trembled. “The school was decorated, and all the classes were in session — just like every day in school. The children had drawings on the walls. An’ — and some of them were real — very good! They had their lessons and the parents could ask them questions.” She sat on the stool in front of the vanity dresser and stared at the mirror in the dark. “And Amerigo,” she paused to blow her nose and wipe the corners of her eyes. Then she rose and entered the front room where he stood by his father’s chair. “And Amerigo, I’m not just saying it because he’s our son, was one of the smartest. They all said so! Miss Fortman an’ Miss Hunt. She’s the new one, a little yellah gal with wavy hair. An’ cute! She even thinks her shadow’s white! She kept rolling her eyes at Professor Powell, and he wasn’t taking any notice of her whatsoever what with that nice-looking wife he’s got. She’s pregnant. And he ignored her, too. And what I mean to tell you, they’re simple people, and not putting on all that big-shot stuff.… I mean, putting on airs. And guess what? He’s in the Beau Brummells! And we’re on his guest list for their formal at the Mu-ni-ci-pal Auditorium! Isn’t that just too too divine? Only big shots belong to that club, and
we’re
invited!”

“Unh!” said Rutherford, “we gonna be mixin’ with high sa-ci-aty. Hey-hey!”

“Be serious, Rutherford. You
know
I ain’ — that I’m not stuck up! And all those so-called big shots don’t impress me at all. But it
is
nice to be accepted by nice
ed
-u-cated people who’re really
doing
things and — and then to wrap it all up, Miss Fortman just
had
to bring us home! That avenue was bad enough, but when we got —”

“What you talkin’ all fancy for?” said Rutherford.

“What!”

“Talkin’ like your son. Huh! First my son an’ then my wife turnin’ into Englishmen on me!”

Viola’s eyes flashed with anger.

“An’ he’s
right
, too! He oughtta learn to talk better. That’s what he’s goin’ to school, tryin’ to git — get an education for.
We
know better
… but we don’t do noth — anything — about it. I’ve scarcely seen a man smarter than you, as far as brains go — when it comes to figuring things out and reading and knowing what’s going on and all that.…
But what good does it do
— if — if you don’t do something with it? I was so
ashamed!
We had to drive through this
slum
with all those low-lifers, crazy winos — killing each other — right on our very doorstep! They were scaired, afraid to come up this alley. Sometimes I’m afraid, too. And then the law — the police came — and the ambulance. They had to
back out
from in front of
our
house. We try to be respectable people,
but they don’ know that!
” She wept freely now. “An’ — an’ they never will, because they’ll be scaired to come down here, an’ we’ll be ashamed to invite ’um —”

“Ashamed a what!”
Rutherford shouted. “
I
ain’ ashamed a
nothin’!
We honest hardworkin’ people. We pay our debts an’ don’ bother
no
body! An’-an’ don’ nobody bother us!”

“You know why? Huh? ’Cause you don’ go down on the avenue when
you
go out. You hang out on Eighteenth Street. You come home and tell me what a nice time you had at Harrison’s — an’ what a nice apartment
they
got out on Twenty-Fourth Street, an’ what a tough wagon
he’s
drivin’. You dream of bein’ able to go out on the lake on Sund’y mornin’s to go fishin’ with Woodie an’ them, but you can’t, ’cause you ain’ got no car an’ they spend too much money for you. You ain’ no more satisfied than me, but you too scaired to do somethin’ ’bout it! When Amerigo goes to high school — he’ll be graduatin’
year after next!
— where’s he gonna invite his high school friends?”

“Why,
hell
— heck —” Rutherford stammered, “
here!
If they — if they —”

“You think they’re gonna come down here!”
Viola screamed. “An’ git
cut up!
Or
killed
, maybe — on the North End! An’ after that he’s got to go to
college!
An’ he’ll be
ashamed
of us!”

“Aw Mom!”

“Naw! I don’
blame
you, I’d be ashamed,
too!
To have to bring your nice girlfriend
down here
— to
Cosy Lane!
Ain’ that a
killer!
”

“Boy,” Rutherford said, “your momma’s
mad
, you hear me?”

“Miss Fortman is the secretary of the Bon-tons. I sent ’er a invitation to our cocktail sip. I wouldn’ even be surprised if she didn’ even come now.”

“Well,” said Rutherford with a show of embarrassed joviality, “that wrapped it up, you done made me mad, Viola. I’m goin’ to bed!” Grinning childishly he rose from the chair, stretched himself, and yawned in an exaggerated manner.

You’re supposed to cover your mouth when you yawn, he thought, comparing him to Principal Powell, Frederick Douglass, Booker T. Washington, and the general.

“I’ll have to have a new dress,” said Viola in the dark. “Can’t wear the same one I wore last year.”