Sweet Song (25 page)

“I am interested. I listen to them talking.”

“You got to participate.”

The wind blew and the tree dropped collected rain all around them. The smell of spring rose from the ground. Bob took a deep breath. He didn’t belong there, yet he had to learn to belong.

“What is your secret?” Hugh asked.

Bob thought back. He had been born, then reborn in the river, then reborn again in the town where he now lived. He didn’t know whether he even knew the secret he held inside. He knew dreams.
He knew memories, but none of them could be articulated. None seemed to be important enough to matter. He could lie, but what would that matter? He knew only one secret, and it was nothing. It was from long ago, in a dream, long before two rebirths. At the moment, under the tree beside Hugh, Bob hardly knew whether he was black or white. Neither felt real to him, even when he remembered Big Leon’s bulging, begging eyes. He remembered blood pushing from Big Leon’s chest up through his shirt. He remembered Edna’s words, the… ‘blood and gush…’ of his own birth.

Bob lowered his head. “My Pa was killed right in front of me and I don’t want to remember.”

“I see,” Hugh said.

The thunder boomed closer. The rain let up.

A trickle of wet ran down the side of Bob’s neck.

“What’d your pa do to get kilt?” Hugh asked.

Bob heard the question as accusatory. Had he said too much? Big Leon had done nothing wrong. He had done something right, something thoughtful, unselfish, and loving. “It was an accident. Hunting. There were too many of us in the woods.”

“I’m sorry, I thought it might have been in the war.

Bob said, “No, not the war.” But he wished he had said that. That might have made Big Leon a hero at least, which was much more fitting than getting in the way of a bullet.

“I didn’t fight in the war either. But don’t tell no one. Sometimes I lie about it so they don’t think I was scared.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Not everybody was called to. Me, I was deep in the woods. Part of the time I was livin’ with Indians. Part of the time I was just walkin’. Truth is, I don’t know why I never walked in that direction.”

“It’s okay,” Bob said. “We all walk in our own direction.”

Hugh looked into Bob’s eyes. “You could lie and I wouldn’t say nothin’ about it.”

“That’s kind of you,” Bob said, but he knew he had already lied.

In a moment, Hugh lifted up to go. He crouched so that he could crawl out from under the tree branches. “I got work,” he said, then
laughed out loud. “It’s a good thing, too. I’m broke. Ate my last meal this mornin’. Got a letter said I’m hired so I can get a tab.”

“You leaving the boarding house?”

Hugh shuffled his legs to get comfortable. He stared beyond the tree’s canopy. “Be gone tonight.” He looked at Bob. “Yours is comin’.”

“I know.”

“Been lookin’?”

“Not today.”

“Now’s the time.”

“I know. I just couln’t.”

“You must have a shit pile of money if you ain’t worried,” Hugh said. “Shit, I’d be thinking about this summer. You know, once them jobs is taken there ain’t no more of ‘em?”

“I realize that.”

“Don’t act like you know. Damn, Bob, even niggers is gettin’ jobs. You don’t want no nigger doing your work now, do you?”

Bob tensed. He gritted his teeth. “No. Don’t suppose I do.” The words hurt more than he expected.

“Mill’s callin’ in all they can get. If you don’t like mill work, there’s raftin’. The river’ll be black with lumber soon. Money will be flyin’.”

“Told you before. I’m not working with timber.”

“Don’t get mad. I’m just helping, is all. You don’t seem worried, yet mid-summer you’ll be starvin’ and sorry. And once they start hirin’ niggers they won’t want to replace ‘em. Niggers come cheap after the war.”

“I wish you’d stop calling them that. They’re Negroes. They’ve got a heritage too.”

“Touchy are we?”

“No, it’s just not respectful of people.”

“At least now I know somethin’ about you.” Hugh crawled out from under the tree. “You want to let them wooly-headed niggers have your job, go ahead.” Hugh stepped into the clearing and walked away.

Bob watched him go. He pushed his chin out. He was as much Negro as he was white. More, once he considered who raised him,
who he could rely on. His next thought negated the first. Bud and Tunny had been as insensitive and mean-spirited as Hank and Earl.

Hugh blended into the mist. His footprints remained in the soft leaves dropped the prior fall. The weeds had, but were already gaining their composure, lifting back up to fill the space Hugh had opened. Bob inhaled deeply. The scent of rain and rotting leaves filled his head, reminding him of his childhood. He had been thinking too much about the opposite sides of the road he had grown up on.

Bob didn’t feel totally white or totally black. He spit onto the ground next to him, as angry with himself for not knowing, as he was with Hugh for suggesting what he couldn’t know. Hugh had been a disappointment, but could he be blamed for it? Bob’s own mother had been a disappointment as well. Both his fathers were disappointments until the very end when they both came through for him in their own way.

Sadness settled over Bob’s shoulders. He let the cool, wet air bring him to shivers. He wished he could just cry out in sorrow and in pain, but there were no tears in his eyes. His chest thickened, his throat closed, but there were no tears.

An opening in the sky let the sun splash over the weeds and hit the tree, bringing it into amazing brilliant color. Bob laughed at the sun. He laughed at his sad heart. He was alive, after all, alive and living as if he were a white man, even though he grew up in a black house. His life suddenly seemed funny.

At mid-day, Bob, wet and clammy, strolled through the downtown streets then up and down the square blocks. He looked for work, but ended up bypassing every help-wanted sign. Mud collected on his boots making them heavy. He did see several Negroes, but they didn’t make eye contact. They walked past him, heads lowered and turned away. The white men said hello, or nodded. Even women looked at him. How could the Negroes not recognize him as one of their own?

Bob sensed a renewed confidence in himself. Perhaps recalling his past also let it go? The next help-wanted sign he came upon, he stepped onto the stairs, walked through the door, and up to the counter.

A big man with fat, wide hands came from a back room. “May I help you.”

“Your sign says you need help.” Bob turned to point out the door.

“Ever bake bread?”

At that moment, Bob recognized the sweet odor his thoughts had drowned out. He looked around. He was in a bakery. “I’ve watched enough times,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Bob White.” He held out his hand.

The man’s chubby cheeks tightened into a smile. His flower-dusted hand reached to take Bob’s. He gripped firmly, the strength due from kneading and rolling. Heat poured from the back. “Somebody did you no favor giving you a name like that.”

“You learn to live with it,” Bob said.

“I suppose you do. Come on back, we’ll talk a bit.”

Bob followed the man into the back. A block of heat hit Bob squarely and his face burst into sweat.

“This here’s the hot-house. Ingredients.” He pointed along one wall. “Water buckets.” He pointed along the floor in the back. “Kneading table.”

Bob noticed the hollowed area of the huge wooden table, its worn-smooth surface, flour-white with a huge glob of dough sitting in the middle of it.

The man pointed to himself. “Jasper.” He laughed out loud. “Town’s fillin’ up. Don’t need a second baker, but I do need a runner can get water, meal, flour, all my supplies. These shelves will run empty more than full when I get to bakin’. Then you might do some mixin’ one day and kneadin’ dough another. Deliveries start early, too. Need to keep the fire burnin’ not too hot and not too cold. But most of all, Bob,” Jasper pointed at him, “you got to be happy. Don’t want no stiffs around here.”

Bob laughed at Jasper, not so much from what was said as from the big man’s appearance. The way he wore flour in his hair and on his hands. The way Jasper talked and how he moved, his belly going everywhere first. How could someone work there and not be happy? “I can do that,” Bob said.

“Well, I like your smile and I like your lean looks. If you can keep up, we got a deal.”

“When do I start?”

The door creaked behind Bob. He hadn’t even heard that noise until now.

“Don’t need no bell,” Jasper said explaining the noise. “Excuse me. I got a customer.”

Bob nodded. He heard Jasper say, “Mr. Billingsford.” Bob stepped to the back of the room. Another door was propped open. An alley opened to scattered trash, barrels of waste, and the strong stench of rot. When he stepped outside, a cat scurried off.

Jasper came back into the hothouse. “Got to get back to work. Just sold my last wheat loaf.” He wiped his hands on a rag hanging on a nail sticking from the table’s leg. In a few steps, he peered into an oven. With a long paddle he poked around inside. “Comin’ along fine,” he said. He began kneading the dough that lay on the table.

Bob watched. It was as though Jasper had forgotten he was there. When Bob walked around in front of the table, Jasper glanced up. His hands and arms were working the dough, pushing, lifting, rolling, slapping. “Seen the river today?”

“This morning.”

“You check it tonight. Then again at sunup. Let me know when you think the lumber’s coming. You worked with lumber, right?”

“How’d you know?”

Jasper held up his hands, turned them so Bob could see them. “You ain’t got a baker’s hands.”

Bob looked at his own nicked and scarred palms. “He laughed. I know wood and I know water.”

“River of dreams,” Jasper said. “That river’s fed more families and made more men rich, it’s almost unnatural. Like it’s alive. Some kind of mysterious force. All you got to do is ask it for something and it delivers. It delivers until it can’t. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“I think I do.”

“That’s what we do. Men. We give to this world ‘til we can’t no more. That river’s alive. It’s like any good man.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Bob said.

“Better start. ‘Cause just like a man, if it gets angry it can kill you. Don’t cross it or that river will show you what anger can do.”

“I won’t.”

Jasper began to roll the dough out flat. “See them buckets.”

“For water.”

“There’s a well you draw from. Back in the alley.” He stopped rolling out the dough and lifted his face to Bob’s. “One bucket of water comes straight from the river. I got a strainer for when the lumber’s runnin’. Each of them other buckets gets a cup of the river’s soul.”

Bob laughed.

“That the only thing’s
not
funny. That river’s part of everything I bake here. Each loaf, every muffin, has been blessed by that river. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can start an hour before sunup, tomorrow. First bucket is river water.”

Bob got serious for Jasper’s sake. “I can do that.”

“Hired a young boy one time. Couldn’t give like the river. Thought he was goin’ to trick me. I seen him piss in the bucket to make it look more like river water.” Jasper folded the flattened dough into a ball, picked it up and slammed it onto the table. “Do that and I’ll kill you.”

“I’m an honest man,” Bob said.

“Just sayin’.”

Bob nodded.

“Start tomorrow, son.”

Bob left the bakery. He had a job and it had nothing to do with lumber. He thought ahead. Perhaps Jasper would teach him to bake. He’d make a good baker. He lifted his palms. The dough would feel soft on his hands. It would wear the calluses smooth and smooth out the nicks as well. Bob made a little skip as he walked back to the boarding house. That was the worst of it. He’d have to continue to live in the boarding house for a while. He checked his pockets where he had begun to keep his money. Before the end of the day, he decided to get a bath. He could do that behind the saloon in the middle of town. He’d start work with a clean body.

B
ob learned the limits of his own body. The hours at the bakery were long. The more he picked up about the art of baking, the more Jasper let him do, not out of laziness, but commerce. Jasper spent much of his time in the front selling the baked goods. Someone had to keep the dough mixed and the oven filled. Bob had never negotiated his pay, but found Jasper to be a generous man.

Bob could smell the river rising. A deep soil scent, muddy and thick as it crept over its banks. Days ahead he heard the lumber running.

The day before the boom began to fill, Jasper closed the bakery at noon and became a hawker for the day, soliciting business from the mill. He planned to deliver bread and muffins right at the mill first thing in the morning, during lunch break and shift changes. The men could bring fresh bread home.