Sweet Song (34 page)

B
ob found that growing up on a farm where he did double chores, spent time with two lazy white boys, and learned to repair things using his own wits, now benefited him more than had he been a mere field hand. He learned quickly and the more odd jobs he performed around town, the more he could apply one set of concepts to the next problem. He, therefore, had a series of jobs from home repair, to general store cashier and operator, to part-time bartender. He also continued to write song lyrics even after the Sisters of Rhythm were on their way to the next town. At least once a month, he would send the Sisters of Rhythm, through the U.S. Mail service, several songs he’d written, knowing that had he heard them again they would most likely sound completely different than what he’d imagined.

His life appeared to have stabilized over time, except that he and Hugh were not in agreement about Bob’s interest in Jenny Finch.

One night, Hugh threw up his hands and said, “Do what you like.”

“You’ll never understand,” Bob said.

The two of them left Jimmy Finch’s while in the middle of their discussion. The night sky turned black with clouds. The end of summer let go of the leaves and color had already broken out all over town and in the mountains where the trees had not been clear cut.

“I understand,” Hugh said, “more than you could ever know. But Jenny doesn’t.”

Bob stopped in his tracks. He was sober and Hugh was drunk. He should have known not to get into a conversation with a drunk man, but it was too late. “That’s not fair,” Bob said.

Hugh swung around, stumbling to keep himself upright. “It doesn’t have to be fair,” he slurred. “It’s true.”

Bob said nothing. He knew it was time to leave. Hugh would be fine walking to the mill alone. But Bob didn’t move. He hadn’t felt punished enough.

Hugh stopped weaving. He glared at Bob. “You haven’t listened to me at all. You’re only comfortable with her because you both grew up around the same colored people. How do you think she’ll react when she finds that out?”

“She won’t.”

“Then your life together will be a lie.”

“I live a lie,” he said.

Hugh’s shoulders relaxed. He looked finished, but he got in the last word before Bob turned to go. “You don’t live a lie with me.”

Bob jogged back to his room in Carl’s house. The exertion eased his anger. His mind cleared. There were many lies in his life and Hugh held only one of them.

Bob lighted two candles and pulled out “Leather Stocking Tales”, another book by Cooper that he found in the library. Reading relaxed him further until he blew out the candles and fell off to sleep.

He awoke in the early morning, still thinking over what he and Hugh had argued over the night before. He had to offer more of his truth to Jenny. After all, she had never heard the true stories of his feet, only a few short tales of his life in a timber camp.

Bob left the room and wandered up the street, away from the river. He had taken to walking through the small Negro section on the Northwest side of town. Something about the sound of them talking, the clanking and banging of their doors and dishes, the sound of the children, brought back memories and feelings he’d thought he’d never want in his life again.

Hugh had told him once, that no matter how bad a childhood could be, there was always a yearning to return to it. Hugh had never told Bob what terrible things had happened in Hugh’s childhood, but Bob knew that the big man talked as much about
himself as anyone. And perhaps he was right. There was something about the idea of returning to the Carpenter Farm that appealed to Bob. Part of him wanted to touch the shack one last time, say goodbye to Martha, skip stones at the creek flat.

He would probably be killed on site.

Did anyone miss him? How did living in the shack change with him and Big Leon gone? Who took over as foreman?

He looped around a few blocks and headed back toward the Susquahanna. He slowed at the corner of the street. To cross it he would again be in the white neighborhood. Were the people all that much different? Years of resentment and fear had been handed down. For Bob, the memory of one way of life slammed into the uncertain and unfamiliar interactions of a new way of life. Were the differences between individuals more a matter of wealth than color? “I’ve seen Negro slave owners kill other Negroes for disobedience,” Hugh had told him once. That act was surely a sign of the power of wealth over poverty. And there was Bob’s own experience with Jed Howard, with getting beaten in the alley, and fights he had witnessed in the logging camps. There were many points of separation, color being the most easily noticed, but wealth and status gave men a reason to hate as well. Even education created a separation where one should not exist. He felt that separation at times himself. He even entertained the thought that it was his white half that allowed him the ability to educate himself. In discussing the subject of white versus black intelligence with Jenny later that day, she said, “I should think not.”

“I knew it didn’t make sense,” he said.

“I’ve met Negroes who were highly educated and intellectually astute when alone or in small groups of like-minded people. Then when they are around whites, they talk down so they don’t insult anyone. Most whites don’t like a Negro who can articulate his views.”

“Some people act stand-offish to me, too, even after they’ve hired me for some odd job. Maybe that’s why Carl doesn’t want his family around me.”

“Jealousy,” Jenny said.

The summer months had brought the two of them closer together. Bob felt at ease around Jenny, even if he still tensed slightly at her intimate touches and caresses. He hated for his chest or stomach to be rubbed and couldn’t understand why it made him so angry. Sometimes the closeness of her breath unnerved him as well.

The two of them sat together near the edge of the river. The evening cooled down. Other couples walked together up on the roadside. The streets emptied as evening wore on. Farmers were daily bringing grain and vegetables into town. Harvests had been good that year.

“Hugh’s hand has healed pretty well,” Bob said.

Jenny leaned into Bob and placed her hand on his knee. “You’re sad about that. Why?”

“I tried to talk him into finding a different job and to stay in town. He insists on cutting timber this winter. He knows a lot of the farmers who are staying here. They’ll work together until spring planting and then the shift will happen again. If he lives through the winter, he’ll be back in spring.”

“He’ll live,” she said. Jenny kissed Bob’s cheek.

“He could stay,” Bob said.

“You’ll miss him.”

The sun reflected off the river. Bob took a deep breath. He had thought a lot about his predicament. He wanted to tell Jenny the truth, but didn’t. Instead, he turned to her and said, “We could marry.”

Jenny pushed away from him as if to take him in more completely. “Marry?”

Bob hung his head.

“Do you mean it? Someone like me?”

“Yes.” He flushed.

“You’ve never said you loved me.”

“Well, I do.”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

His tense fear lightened as Jenny leaned back, shook her head, and smiled. What had he done? How would he tell Hugh?

They laughed together. Finally, she said yes.

Bob heard Hugh’s concerns in the back of his mind, but he so wanted a normal life and Jenny seemed the right choice. He half listened to her as she rambled about a small wedding, a simple house, and – his heart jumped – children.

Jenny couldn’t have known what he was feeling. She asked why he fell silent, but all Bob could say was that it was a big step and he was considering the details, worried over their living conditions and if he’d be able to support a wife and family.

“We’ll be fine,” Jenny said. She placed her hands on his cheeks and looked into his eyes.

Bob wasn’t so sure, but Jenny’s smile was contagious. He found that in a few minutes his delight in the idea grew to match hers. His concerns fell away.

“I know we can live in the big house with Jimmy until we find our own place. But we may not have to,” she shrilled. “Homes are being finished up all over town.” Her faced lighted up and her eyes grew big. “Or we could build our own at the edge of town.”

“There is hardly an edge to town,” Bob said. “Williamsport is growing so fast. It’s like everyone is looking for a piece of the lumber business.”

“Except you,” she said.

“I like working odd jobs, and as a replacement for when someone gets sick or injured.” He looked at his hands in the fading light. “It’s easier on my hands, too. Lumber tortures the hands.”

Jenny placed her hands into his, “I love your hands.” She became giddy. “And I love your smile. I love your shoulders and neck and lips.”

Her excitement worried Bob. Could he live up to her expectations? He had a lot of money in the bank. He needed very little to live, but what about Jenny? He didn’t want to get a real, day-long job. He worried that he’d run out of things to say if they were together more than a few nights a week. And then there was the possibility of children. His thoughts wavered between the logic he had created and the unknown reality that Hugh had posed. What would he do if they had a Negro child? What would Jenny do?

Bob’s stomach churned with acid put there by his own body. Worry and uncertainty attacked him. After dropping Jenny off, he took his time walking home.

Lately Bob worked at the feed mill. Wagon loads of grain and corn and hay needed to be unloaded, counted, and logged. He had tried to get Hugh to quit the mill and help at the feed storage, but Hugh stuck with what was familiar.

There seemed to be a different warehouse foreman every few weeks at the feed mill. Now it was a man named Josh, who had a similar build and skin color as Bob. Josh appeared to think they were the same nationality and often slapped Bob on the shoulder and said, “We got to stick together.”

Bob just smiled and got back to unloading a wagon or filling grain bins.

Putting up hay was a big part of the feed mill’s year long income. The larger the town got, the more horses and carriages there were. And the number of residents had practically doubled in size over the last year.

The stable had expanded into its own hay bins. Horses had taken over the entire lower barn space there. A third stable was already half built. Bob had helped to frame it in late summer.

Bob knew hay. He could tell whether it had been harvested a day too early or left on the ground too many nights. Horses needed clean hay, none that was too dusty or they’d get the heaves. Josh took Bob with him to look over about every third load that came in.

Bob did not recognize the wagon itself, but once he glimpsed the driver, he turned away. There were three loads. Hank Carpenter drove the first one. He had grown, in a few years, to look just like his father with thick red hair and a weeklong beard.

Josh seemed to know Hank. “Hey there.”

“Hey,” Hank said.

“Back again. It’s a long haul down here for you, isn’t it?” Josh yelled up to Hank.

“Long as yer prices is still better, we make the trip.”

“How’s your pa?” Josh asked.

Bob stood behind the wagon and waited, peaking around from time to time. He feared that any moment Earl or one of the hands would sneak up on him. It would be all over.

“See fer yourself. Pa’s in the wagon coming along there.” Hank pointed to one of the other wagons still making its way down the road.

“Bob?” Josh yelled. “Hey, Bob, where are you?”

Bob froze. His whole time in town had come to an end. He could run, but where to? And why? He could deny being Leon, but who would care once Hank and Earl recognized him? There was nothing he could do. He stepped around the wagon. Would Hank just shoot him down right there?

“Look this load over. Should be pretty good,” Josh said to Bob. Then he turned to Hank. “You boys stayin’ long enough to get a drink tonight?”

“As soon as we put Pa up someplace. This trip was hard on ‘im.”

Bob looked over the load of alfalfa. It did look good.

Hank had hopped down from the buckboard and came up on Bob. “This here’s the best you’ll find. Bob, was it?” He held out his hand.

Bob turned and stared at Hank. Right in the eyes. They shook hands. “It looks good to me,” Bob said.

Hank cocked his head and leaned back slightly.

“Everything okay?” Bob said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. His heart raced and his knees weakened.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Check ‘em all,” Josh yelled.

Bob found it difficult to walk. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted when he realized that Hank had never really looked at him. He had been a Negro farmhand, a slave really. He had never been seen. All those years he had been invisible.

Hank met with Earl, “Let’s get a quick drink while they take care of this.”

Josh put his arm around Bob’s shoulder – way too familiar for Bob, but he tolerated it. “Now there’s a sad story,” Josh whispered. “Their pa was shot stupid by a runaway nigger that raped his daughter. You believe it? Later, she gave birth to a monster child.
Hank had to smash its head in and bury it. His sister ran away the next week. Never seen again.”