Destiny (44 page)

That night there was a riot in Orangeburg. There were several different versions as to how it started.

Some people said it began when three white men and a white woman came out of a bar, and a Negro man made a remark about the woman as she passed him on Main Street.

Others said it began when three white men in a Chevy tried to pick up a Negro girl, and her boyfriend fought them off when they tried to pull her into the car.

Some people blamed liquor; some blamed local Negro activists, the same ones responsible for the protests about segregation on buses. Some blamed the heat—the humidity was high, and the temperature hadn't dropped below ninety degrees for over a week. Some blamed the state pohce, others the federal government. But whatever the causes, and however the riot began, its results were clear.

Leroy Smith, aged seventeen, Negro, employed as a mechanic at Haines's garage. Route 48, was pronounced dead on arrival at Montgomery County Hospital, of stab wounds to the heart.

Three other boys, all black, were detained in custody, awaiting trial. Two white boys were held for questioning, and later released. Two store fronts were smashed in; one car was set ablaze. There were no civihan witnesses.

Helene heard the sirens. They woke her at one in the morning as she lay in her narrow bed, sleeping fitfully. Her mother turned her head, and stirred, but did not wake. The sirens screamed through the dark, and eventually Helene got up, and went out, and sat on the step outside.

274 • SALLY BEAUMAN

The air was heavy with heat. In the darkness the branches of the trees hardly moved. Thin moonhght shone on the Spanish moss, so the trees seemed to crawl with silver snakes. Thick furry white moths blundered into the light, then back into the shadows. A firefly shone red, then disappeared.

Across the trailer park, she could hear voices, the opening and shutting of doors; and beyond, where the road was, headlights brightened the sky as the sirens screamed past. She sat there for an hour, maybe more, not knowing what had happened, but able to imagine, because it had happened before; she knew what the sirens meant—hatred and death.

After two, the sirens stopped. No more headlights lit the sky. The voices in the trailer park ceased; doors shut. Over in the distance, beyond the cotton fields, she heard the freight train go through, the rattle of its wheels carrying on the still air: hatred and death, hatred and death, hatred and death ... Its whistle wailed as it went through the Orangeburg crossing; then there was silence.

She sat there still, until—her eyes accustomed to the dark now—she saw a shadow move over beyond the trees. She stood up; the shadow moved again. Then she ran down the steps, across the yard, out through the picket gate.

"Billy?"

He was standing under the trees, his face very pale in the moonlight. Even from where she stood she could see that he was hurt. There was blood on his shirtfront, a long jagged red cut down his cheek.

"Billy! You're hurt. Are you all right? What did they do to you? What happened?"

He took her hands as she reached out to him and held them loosely in his own.

"Leroy's dead. He was getting married next week. I went to the hospital. I knew he must be dead, but I kept thinking. I kept hoping. There were cops everywhere, in the lobby, in the corridors ... it was swarming with them. They wouldn't let me in. They wouldn't tell me if he was dead or not. A nurse told me finally. His girl was there by then, and when she heard it, she started screaming." He covered his ears with his hands. "I can still hear her. She couldn't believe it—it all happened so quick. I was with them. I saw it. I saw the whole thing. Leroy did nothing— nothing, hardly spoke even. And when the knife went in, he didn't even holler. He just doubled up like he was winded. Then his eyes rolled back, and he kicked—just a little bit, with one leg. I knew then. He was my friend. I worked with him three years. I promised him I'd be there—at the wedding."

Quite suddenly, his legs crumpled. He went down into the dirt, in a

DESTINY • 275

crouching position, his arms around his body, his head bent. Helene stood still for a moment, looking down at him, then quickly she crouched beside him, her arms around him. She felt terribly cold, and suddenly very afraid.

"Billy ..." Her lips had gone so dry, she had to force the words out. "Billy. You saw it? You saw who did it? You recognized them?"

"Yes." He didn't lift his head.

"Billy. Billy. Look at me. Did you tell the pohce?"

He looked up then, slowly.

"Not yet." He gave a sudden grimace. "Tried to. Seemed to me they had a hearing problem suddenly."

"But you're going to tell them? Make a statement?"

"The station'll be quieter come morning." He shrugged. "I guess I'll go down there then."

He looked up at her then, and lifted his hand to her face. "You're crying." He sounded surprised. "Helene—why're you crying?"

"You know why. Oh, Billy, you know."

He looked into her eyes steadily for a while. Then, very gently, he wiped the tears away. His face looked quite altered. It had set in hard lines, and Helene thought he looked older than she had ever seen him. He looked tired, and though his eyes rested on her face, they looked as far away as the summer sky.

"I don't want you to get hurt, Billy."

"I'm not hurt." His mouth twisted into a smile, and she knew he was misunderstanding her deliberately. "Look. It's just a scratch. . . ."

"Billy . . ."

"It's simple. There's no choice. Not if I want to go on hving with myself. That's all." He stood up then and drew Helene to her feet. "One day . . ." He stopped, put his arms around her loosely, started again. "One day—you'll go away from here. I just wish I could go with you, that's all. . . ."

"You could!" Impulsively, Helene reached out to him. "You could, Billy! We could go together. We don't have to stay here. We could pack up and leave, we could find work somewhere else. Somewhere different! Somewhere that wasn't like this. We could do it, Billy—we could!"

"I wish I thought that. I wish I believed it."

"But you don't."

"No," he said gently. "I don't. But you'll go—I'm certain of that. And it makes me glad. Whatever you do, whatever happens, I'll feel a part of it too. I'll be happy that way. And proud."

Helene stared at him; then she turned her head away.

"You don't know me, Billy," she said. "You don't. If you knew me, really knew me, you wouldn't say that."

276 • SALLY BEAUMAN

"I know you. Better than you think. And I do say it." Gently he touched her face, turning her back so he could look into her eyes, though Helene felt he looked into her heart.

"Go back to bed now." He pushed her away gently. "It's late."

"I want to stay. I want to be with you, Billy."

"Not now. I need to be alone. I need to think."

Helene got up at six. Although the sun was low, it was already very hot, the damp heavy oppressive heat that could only be broken by a storm. Next to her mother's bed, on the little yellow chest, was the neat pile of green dollars she had given her mother the previous night. She would see it again, first thing, on waking.

Helene cleaned up the little kitchen: no dishes from the night before; once again, her mother hadn't eaten. She straightened the now threadbare paisley shawl over the chair. She swept the floor and wiped down the oilcloth, and then carefully arranged the breakfast dishes for her mother and herself. She drew water from the pump and heated it, and then, when she heard her mother stirring, she took it in to her so she could wash.

"Clean things," her mother said when she sat up. "I need clean things, Helene."

It took her a long while to get ready. When she finally came out into the kitchen, Helene could see the effort she had made. Her hair was carefully combed; she had made up her face, so her mouth looked startlingly red against the pallor of her skin. She had put on mascara, and it had smudged a little. She was wearing her best dress, and her best shoes, with high thin heels. They needed mending. She glanced down at them regretfully as she sat down, then adjusted the seams of her stockings.

"My last new pair." She smiled at Heldne vaguely. "I've been keeping them back."

Helene quietly made her tea, but her mother took only a few sips, without milk. She wouldn't eat anything. Helene sat down and leaned across the table.

"Mother. Mother. I want you to listen to me."

Her mother looked up. The violet eyes met Heldne's, and then slid away.

"Mother, please. It's important. I've been thinking. We have to leave here. Mother. We have to."

"Of course, darling. I know that." Again the violet eyes turned to Helene's face, and again Helene knew her mother hardly saw her, let alone hstened to her. Helplessly, she reached across and took her mother's hand.

"Listen, Mother, oh, please hsten. I know we always talked about it

DESTINY • 277

before, when I was little, and we planned, and we tried to save, and then we forgot it for a while, and then we talked about it again. But I don't mean it hke that. Mother. Not now. I mean it seriously. We have to go— right away from here. It's . . . it's a bad place. A horrible place. It gets into your bones and your mind. It ... it takes all your energy away and all your willpower." She broke off. Her mother was not listening.

"Mother." She set her mouth. "I'm going to write Elizabeth. Your sister Elizabeth. I'm going to write to her today."

That got through to her. Helene saw the comprehension come back into her mother's eyes. She pressed her hand more tightly.

"I'm going to write to her. Mother, and explain. I'm going to tell her how ill you've been, and how we need help." She drew in her breath. "I'm going to ask her to send us the fare back to England. I'm sure she'll help us. Mother. She's your sister. You've never asked her for anything else. And if she won't help . . . then I'm going to leave school. Not in two years, now. I'm going to leave school, and get a job and earn the money. It might take a bit longer, but I can do it, Mother, I know I can. I can take two jobs, the way Billy Tanner used to. Work evenings as well as days. I'm young. Mother! I could do it easily. A year from now, we'd have enough. Think of it. Mother. Just one more year, that's all! Maybe not that long. If Elizabeth helped us, it could be a couple of months, a few weeks. ..."

Her mother moved, a quick jerky movement back from the table. Her ankle caught the leg of the chair as she moved, and her stocking snagged against the rough wood. There was a httle silence. Slowly her mother extended her leg and looked down. As she stretched her leg, the white run made its way up the stocking from ankle to knee. She looked up at Helene. She said, "I'm pregnant."

It was not a word Helene had ever heard her mother use. She said it in a small flat voice, without emotion. Then she gave a little cough and cleared her throat.

"Two months. Eight weeks. They'll do it up to three months, but the longer you leave it, the more dangerous it is. At two months it should be quite safe. I have the money now—thank you for that, Helene. I shall go over to Montgomery today and get it seen to."

She spoke as if she were having a tooth out that had been troubUng her,

"Mother . . ."

"It's perfectly all right, darling. I know it's against the law, but it's a very silly unrealistic law, and, thank goodness, there always have been doctors who recognize that and are prepared to help you. Doctors—and other people of course. They used to say that Mississippi Mary did something of that kind occasionally, but I don't know about that. I wouldn't go anywhere Uke that, so you needn't worry. The man in Montgomery is a

278 • SALLY BEAUMAN

proper doctor. He has qualifications. Medical qualifications. I shall be perfectly all right." Her mother paused. Carefully she removed her hand from Helene's. She raised her eyes and looked out the window. Her face was composed, her voice level.

"He'll do it today. I believe it's very quick and quite simple. I shall be home this evening, at about six, because you have to rest for a little while after the operation. And when I get back, we'll talk about all your plans, darling. Tonight. Or tomorrow. But you do see, don't you, Helene, that I can't really think about them now?" She paused, and gave a little frown, as if she were trying to remember something that had slipped her mind, something very minor—an item on a shopping list maybe.

"I hadn't intended to tell you this, of course. It's not something one discusses really, is it?" She gave a faint smile. "But I think, on the whole, that you ought to know. You see, I've been very stupid, I understand that now. And I'd hke to believe you wouldn't make the same mistakes. You should never trust a man, Helene. Never rely on them, ever." She lifted her hand in a vague waving gesture. "It's very difficult, of course. One thinks one's in love—women do think that. And then one is so terribly vulnerable. I sometimes think, if women didn't fall in love so foolishly, their lives would be much simpler and much happier. They wouldn't believe the lies, then, you see. I believed your father's lies, Helene. And he hed about everything. He said ... he said he had a farm to return to when he got out of the army. He said we'd live in a lovely house, and when I arrived here, I found I had to live in a quite horrible little bungalow place, with his mother and father and brothers and sisters. He said he worshipped the ground I walked on, Helene. . . ." She hesitated fractionally. "And I don't know why, but it was wartime, and Americans seemed so glamorous then, and he was quite unlike anyone I'd ever met before. And so I married him, and I came over here, with you, a tiny baby. And then I found out that none of it was true. None of it. Then I left, of course. I had my pride." She stopped, and her eyes returned to Helene's face. "You were bom in England, darling. I always thought that was very important to remember. You will always remember it, won't you?"

"Mother. Please. Stop. Don't go on." Helene bent her head, and her mother sighed.

"Yes, well, I suppose you're right. There's absolutely no point in thinking about the past. I do realize that now. I've thought about the past far too much. And there's really no point, because one learns nothing from it at all. History repeats itself One simply goes on making the same mistakes, and listening to the same lies—exactly the same ones, just said by a different voice—and one believes them." She pushed the cup and saucer away from her, flicked the teaspoon idly with her finger.