The Children (17 page)

C
OMING BACK INTO THE STREET, MARIE SAW THOMAS
Edison go into Ishky's house. Now, it is difficult to say why she followed him—surely not because of any great interest in Thomas Edison. But the halls— She found it impossible to resist the terrible fascination of the halls, long narrow passageways hardly lit by the flickering gas jets.

She crept into the hall, and again it seemed to her that she was stepping into the corridors of hell. In her haste, she ran up the stairs, but when she got to the roof, it was empty. Where had he gone, then?

She heard someone scream from the airshaft. As she approached the airshaft, her fear increased, and then she looked over and saw him.

Her face trembling, she turned away. The woman in the airshaft was still screaming, but on the roof there was peace and sunshine. Marie sank to the tar, afraid—afraid to look down the airshaft again or to go back to the street. A sparrow, pecking at the tar, walked toward her, and she watched the sparrow, her mouth wide open.

Life was curious and fearful—but filled with fascination. The sparrow was fascinated with her, and obscurely it came to Marie that she was fascinated with the entire wondrous business of being alive. Thomas Edison lay in the airshaft, and probably he was dead. What fascination in death, in everything, in Thomas Edison! She looked at the sky, threw back her head and found herself smiling through her fear. Smiling. Why was she smiling? The reaction set in abruptly, and she began to cry. Then she made her way back to the street.

A crowd had gathered all of a sudden in front of the house. Excited, anticipative, they all knew that something had happened, without any one of them knowing what. Here was life, fascination, curiosity. Squeezing through the crowd, Marie watched the cellar door. Then they brought out Thomas Edison.

“Geesus—”

“Whaddedo?”

“How duh hell should I know!”

“Lookout dere!”

(Room, room, room, room, give us room and let us pass, room, room—)

What did he want with room now? What now?

From the roof, a flight of pigeons circled, lifted, dropped to the crowd, and circled again. A bluecoat swaggered down the street.

“Dere's a cop—”

“Geesus!”

(Geesus, Geesus—softly, Geesus Christ!)

And every mother thought it was her own son, and the crowd surged back and forth, almost overwhelming the small body. A woman screamed and continued to scream. Nobody knew who she was.

“Geesus, what duh hell's she screamin' fer?”

“Now, awright, make way dere, an' gimme some room. Geesus Christ now, howdya expect me tuh git through? Awright, lady, I know it's lousy, an' whaddya wan' me tuh do? Now git away an' lemme through.”

The cop pushed his way to the front, standing almost on top of Marie, who saw that it was Thomas Edison and no other, all broken up. Curiosity and fascination. She shuddered and felt sick—the way the blood dripped down.

“Now—who is he?”

A woman fainted, and they carried her out of the crowd.

“Now dere, stop duh shovin'! Whoisee?”

“I knowim.”

“Me too.”

The procession made its way down the block, carrying Thomas Edison. But they all knew that he was quite dead. Jumped off the roof, or fell off the roof, or pushed off the roof—what difference did it make, when anyone at all could see that he was better off dead? And what was the use of someone like him going on living with a stupid large head that he could scarcely carry on his shoulders?

Marie followed them, squeezing, thrusting, hoping she would miss nothing of it. All shuddering, thrilling, sick and almost ready to vomit, she knew it was wonderful nevertheless.

“Well, where's he live?” Dere.

“Dat's duh house, right dere!”

The law thrust in with the body, all the way into the kitchen, where Oloman sat knitting. And they stood with the body, while the old, old woman stared at them. Then they set the body down on the kitchen table. The old woman only stared.

“Awright, git out! All of yuh—clear out! C'mon, now no trouble!”

The old woman looked at the body. Thomas Edison there. The law hardly knew what to say, and it twisted its cap round and round.

“What happened?” the old woman whispered.

“Fell offana duh roof, I guess.”

“Fell off …”

“Yer son?”

“No, no—my grandson.”

“Well, I'm sorry—”

“Yes—yes—and he's dead, I take it. He's dead, isn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“Dead—poor fool. Reaching to the sky …”

“Eh, mam?”

She shook her head, holding out her trembling hands. “No—no, you would not understand that. He reached up—up to the sky. Do you see? Now he's dead, poor fool. Or maybe not so much of a fool—if I could say …”

“He wasn' right in duh head, lady?”

“Not right—or maybe too right.”

“Take it easy, mam.”

“Yes.” She turned to him, smiling. “Nothing the matter with me. Only—this poor fool.” Then she began to cry, easily, softly.

“Easy, mam—”

Outside, the crowd lingered. No reason to go away, when there was high drama within. Marie lingered, too. What would happen? And where was Ollie? Where was Ollie?

She saw Ollie coming down the street, dirty and bloody. He had been fighting—always fighting. She saw how white his face was—white as a sheet. Now what would Ollie do? What would Ollie do now?

The crowd made way for him; nobody spoke. First, he hesitated, and the crowd wondered whether he knew. Or didn't he know? Wouldn't he go in? He went in very slowly.

He went in, and in the kitchen, he saw the policeman. He shivered, started to go back, and then he saw Thomas Edison. Oloman said nothing. Slowly, he approached the table, until he stood next to his brother, weak, feeling sick, feeling that any moment his knees would give beneath him.

“You'll torture him no more,” the old lady said.

He went out, and again the crowd made way for him. Marie followed him, as he started up the block.

“Ollie—Ollie!”

He began to run. Reaching the avenue, he ran until it seemed that surely his heart must break. Then, sobbing, he sank against a building. In great gasps, he cried, his chest heaving, his heart swelling up inside of him.

On and on and on, his legs working under him like pistons. The lots were ahead of him, beyond that, the river. Then he remembered.

Blackbelly was dead.

He swerved aside, but he could run no more. On one corner, he sank into a little pile against a building. His mouth dropped open, hot saliva running from between his lips. But there was no rest here—none. He had to go back to the house.

It seemed to him that he could not find the way back to the block. How long had he been walking? When he came to the block again, the sun was low, the afternoon already gone. No crowd in front of his house now. Had it been all a dream?

He came back to the house. Now it was empty, except for Oloman, who sat alone. Where was Thomas Edison? Slipping in, he peered at Oloman. Then she turned around and saw him.

“Come here,” she said.

He came, slowly, trembling.

“You see the black sin on your soul?”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

Her eyes softened then, and she held out one hand. Then he was in her arms, sobbing out the story. Night fell on them, and Oloman stared ahead of her—her face stony and silent.

THIRTY-TWO

K
IPLEG WENT BACK, HESITATINGLY, BECAUSE THE FASCINATION
was greater than the fear. Trembling, he crept down the slope, felt his way through the underbrush, and came to the place where they had lynched Blackbelly.

All gone now, but Blackbelly was still there, hanging, not swaying now. Kipleg knew that he was dead.

Kipleg stared at him, trembled, wiped the sweat from his face, and continued to stare. It was so peaceful. Now Blackbelly was no longer struggling; his head drooped forward. No challenge now. No hate. No defiance. Only Blackbelly hanging there, while the breeze from above the river moved his clothes.

(He's dead. Kipleg, isn't he dead? I don't know. Oh, my God, I don't—)

But no hate is left. Kipleg stared without hating, curiously, wonderingly. What had made the change? Was it so awful, now Blackbelly was dead? But what did they do to men who killed? What would they do to him?

He crept away, but all the time he kept looking back. He couldn't help but look back.

And all the time he climbed back up the bluff he looked down to where Blackbelly hung. Death hung over him, like a still, dreadful mystery—dreadful as Blackbelly was in his death. It was more than fear.

“Dirdy nigger,” he whispered.

But it meant nothing to him now, for death was the great master, and he crawled on up the bluff, leaving the Negro behind him, not hating. He stood up, and the breeze from above the river played over him.

He walked on, always looking behind him, and as he walked, fear reasserted itself. If they came for him, he would hang, like Blackbelly. Death was a grim master.

Ahead, he saw Shomake, all in a heap. Now he wanted company—any company in his misery. He called, “Shomake!”

Shomake turned around, saw him.

“Whaddya cryin' fer?”

“I dunno.”

“Geesus, don' be a baby.”

“Is he dead?” Shomake whispered.

“I dunno.”

“What'll dey do tuh us?”

“Howda I know?”

They sat down together, staring over the river. Sho make wept silently. Then they stood up, as by some unspoken accord.

“Less git oudda here.”

“Yeah.”

They walked to the block, looking back, always looking back. Shomake was tired, terribly tired. He wanted to be home, to be solidly encased in the darkness of the back room.

Just before they reached the block, they began to run. Kipleg turned off, ran down the avenue, but Shomake dashed for the safety of his store. His father glanced up at him, but Shomake didn't pause. He ran into the back room, plunged onto the bed; gripping the covers, he lay there, and the close twilight of the place closed over him.

Dark and comfortable here, where they could never come for him. Blackbelly was dead, but the dark mystery wouldn't come in here. Warm smells and good smells, and close comfort. He crawled onto the bed, up to the pillow, and then he forced his face down onto the pillow, wetting it with dirty tears.

When his mother came into the room, she saw him lying there, his clothes torn and covered with long streaks of dirt.

“Child,” she said.

Turning over, he looked at her, his eyes filled with such fear as she had never seen before. He had been crying, and the tears had furrowed lines on his face. Now he stared at her as if she were a thing of horror; then he put a hand in front of his face. His lips were trembling.

“Child, what is it?”

“Nothing—nothing.”

“What are you afraid of here? Is there anything to be afraid of here? Tell me—”

“Nothing.”

“You were fighting—”

“No, no, no—I swear that I wasn't, mother mine. No, I wasn't fighting. No.”

“It's all right, child. Perhaps you were only playing. I didn't mean to frighten you. Come—and let me clean your face.” But when she put her hands on him, she felt how he was trembling.

“Tell me what's wrong.”

He thought rapidly. He mustn't tell—anything but that. Blackbelly he must never speak of, never. Otherwise, he would hang in the same way—and he was afraid.

“Tell me—”

“My fiddle. I want the fiddle.”

“Yes—yes, you'll have it, child. Ishky took it, and he'll bring it back …”

“Ishky! He took my fiddle? Ishky took it?” The world was crumbling all around him.

“Yes, yes, but not for any dreadful reason. I tell you he'll bring it back.”

“No—he won't.”

“Child, stop trembling—look at me!”

But how could he stop, how, with fear and hurt and terror surging all over his body? Blackbelly was hanging there, dead. Only, she didn't know. She would never know.

THIRTY-THREE