Five Smooth Stones (109 page)

"I know that, David," said Brad quietly. "Aunt Mattie and Uncle Mose lost their individuality as something apart from their white families a long time ago. Not only their bodies but their minds were trained to servitude. But not so many of them live in now, and they may feel differently when they find themselves crossing Main Street all alone."

"God damn it, man, they won't be crossing Main Street alone. You think Cainsville's the only town in the whole damned South where they don't have white men's niggers? Cats who'd tie a rock around their own mother's necks and throw her in the river if they thought the whites would go easy on 'em? What about some poor devil with anywhere from five to fourteen kids scratching to make it every week, every day? If you think the expression 'bread' is some kind of modern slang, you're mistaken. I can remember my grandfather quoting his mother, who didn't use slang, as saying 'No man should be ashamed of the way he earns his bread.' Man, that bread on their own table is a hell of a lot more important to a lot of those guys than being able to break bread in a restaurant with whites."

"David, we don't expect one hundred percent-participation. None of us expect that But look back over your own experience in the field. Hasn't it been the man with a flock of children who's been as cooperative as he's dared? Haven't you found a number of people with the attitude of the old lady, hobbling along during the bus boycott—'I ain't walking for myself; I'm walking for my grandbabies'? Haven't you?"

David was silent for a long time, and neither Brad nor Luke disturbed his thoughts. At last he said slowly: "Yes. Yes, I have. And I've seen a lot of them lose their jobs, get foreclosed, have their credit cut off, their homes damaged. Hell, I've smelled lynching in the air." He was silent again, then looked at Luke. "Did you tell the magazine about this?"

"No. They've given me a free hand. They know something's cooking, I guess, but they didn't press me. They want some big-city stuff first, anyhow; what youth groups are doing in New Orleans, Atlanta, places like that. But I'm sticking as close to Cainsville as I can. I'll get that picnic Sunday, then go on to Memphis, but I'll be in touch. I ought to make it to Cainsville for a few days by the middle of the week."

"The minute the thing's ready to break, we'll notify the news media," said Brad.

"And I'll get some exclusives," said Luke. "Like Abraham Towers's nephew, Jim, sitting on his porch with a beer while the spittoons at the Grand Hotel stay full."

A clean spittoon on the altar of the Lord, a clean bright spittoon all newly polished.
David wondered if Luke remembered saying that, the first night they met.

He had been sitting with one leg over the arm of the chair; now he put both feet on the floor. "I suppose it could work," he said. "I suppose it could. And if it did, Luke's right. You'd have 'em by the balls. But I don't know. I just don't know." He stood, stretching, and laughed shortly when Luke said, with an almost pleading note in his voice, "It's practical, boss."

"Cripes! Look who's talking about practicality. You hungry, kid? Must be all of two hours since you've eaten."

"Man, that's what I call
really
practical!"

While David was reheating gumbo, setting out plates, Brad leaned against the sink, his thin, tan face showing signs of fatigue now. "You know, David," he said, "we all know, the Emancipation Proclamation has never been really operative in the South. But there's still no law that says a policeman can go into a man's home and drag him out to work, yank a fishing pole out of his hand and put a shovel in its place."

"Right. But they can sure harass 'em."

"I remember we talked about it at your place one night. Peg was in New York. Your friend Tom Evans was down from Vermont, and Suds and Rhoda and Sara—"

He stopped, and David said evenly: "I remember. Later we all went to Marblehead for a shore dinner. Then came back and spent most of the night around the piano, drinking beer and singing. It was a long time ago. But my memory's good."

"Still like that, eh?"

David turned to him, eyes shadowed. "Your mother ever tell you that you were born with a veil?"

"If I haven't developed intuition in twenty years, I'm in the wrong racket."

"You seen Sara lately?"

"Two, maybe three, months ago. She was at the house for dinner with Suds and Rhoda. She was only in the U.S. a couple of weeks. She's in West Germany now, Düsseldorf. She went over to teach at some summer art classes. They ought to be over about now."

"Hunter Travis?"

"Why do you think I'm so well informed? He's still the faithful two-way channel for information."

"Does Sutherland still hate my guts?"

"Don't be an ass. He never did. And he's mellowed."

David carried rice from stove to drainboard. "I read something about an exhibit of Kent's—"

"At the Kershaw Gallery in London. In about two weeks. That's close to the top, very close—"

"Fine. That's fine. Hand me one of those soup plates, Chief."

David spooned rice into one side of the plate, filled the other side with steaming gumbo, and handed it to Brad, then did the same for Luke, who had been standing quietly in the background. "Let's eat it in the living room," he said. "It's cooler there."

On their way through the dining room Luke stopped and pointed a finger. "Piano," he said. "There. Where's that guitar you had, man?"

"In the hall closet. After you've eaten you want to make a little music, kid?"

There was always some anodyne for pain there, in the ends of his fingers and the sounds they made.

CHAPTER 69

On Sunday morning Luke appeared in the doorway of David's room dressed in tennis shoes, slacks, and a sports shirt of bilious green splashed with impressionistic orange flowers. David groaned, said: "Take it away. Take it outside. Take it off. Jeez! Take it away till I've had some coffee."

"You don't like this shirt? Man, it's a fine shirt. Cost me plenty. I got it in New York."

"I don't care where you got it. Just wear it someplace I'm not."

Luke grinned. "What makes you so conservative, boss? Look, I gotta go to a youth meeting. Take pictures. One of the churches on the other side of town. They're holding it after the service. Then I'll make the scene at the picnic."

David sat up, noted that the coffee maker beside the bed had stopped percolating, and poured coffee. "Want some? Get a cup."

"I've eaten, man. Coffee, eggs, bacon, toast, the works. I'd have had more only I'm hung over."

"You wash the dishes?"

"Me and the cat. Can I go now?"

"Yeah. And hurry. Out of my sight."

"Yes,
sir.
See you—"

David listened to Luke's feet padding through the house, heard the front door close and a car start up. It was a used car that Luke had acquired the day before after negotiations too complicated for even Brad or David to follow. His own car was a necessity for Luke now. Showering, shaving, David thought of how he'd miss the kid, of how dependent he had grown on Luke's need for him. It must be a little like seeing your child start off for school the first day. If there were only a few more years between us we'd be like three generations: Brad, me, and Luke, he thought. He knew he'd miss Luke, even when he was in Boston.

He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, wondering what a man had to do to get rested besides sleep, when Brad appeared in robe and slippers.

"I wasn't going to call you," said David. "Somebody in the joint ought to get rested. Luke's off and running, hung over some, and I feel like I've been digging ditches all night, and I haven't even had a drop."

"Comparatively speaking, then, I'm in fine shape."

"What time you planning on leaving for Cainsville?"

"One o'clock plane to Capitol City. I'll phone Chuck to meet me." He sat down, wincing, caught the expression on David's face, said: "It's all right. For God's sake, it's all right. It always stiffens up in the night, and wears off in an hour or so. Especially on a warm day. Forget it. If I mentioned breakfast would anything happen?"

"Breakfast. That's what would happen." David got up and walked to the pan cupboard. "Grits?... Eggs?... Ham?... Toast?... Look, don't you even know how to say 'no'!"

After he had eaten, Brad drew his coffee cup toward him, cradling it in his hands.

"Let's talk about real estate," he said.

"Talk about
what?"

"Real estate."

David grinned. "Remember what old Higginbotham used to say to a new class on opening day?"

Brad laughed. "Yes. 'The ramifications, complications, involvements, and general cussedness of the laws governing real property are such that a man must either have great courage or be a damned fool to own it Personally, I rent. Now, gentlemen—'"

"I agree. Why do we have to talk about real estate on a muggy Sunday morning?"

"Pour yourself another cup and listen. This real estate is in Cainsville. It belongs to an old lady named Towers. She's the only Negro I've run into there whom even the whites call by a last name. She's known as 'ol' Miz Towers' to everyone. She is, I believe, incredibly old to be so active. I've never asked her age because I knew I wouldn't believe what I was told. All estimates are in excess of ninety years. She has a son, Abraham, who lives with her. He is about fifty-four. His wife is dead and his children—four, I think, in the teen-age bracket—live with his sister."

"Who would be Miz Towers's daughter."

"Right. Said sister has a son of her own named Jim Towers. Lightish. His father is generally believed to be the man who is now chief of police. There's a touch of rape involved."

"That's not rape. That's the white man's privilege."

"I know. Anyhow, Jim works as porter at the Grand Hotel on Main Street."

"This is real estate?"

"Shut up and let me get on with it. Miz Towers owns the land her house, originally a cabin, stands on. She also owns a large piece of property to the west of it. We'll forget the land she lives on and that she and Abraham farm for themselves. It's not involved." Brad got up and walked to the desk that had replaced the buffet in the dining room, came back with a pencil and paper. "That's what I like about you, son. A place for everything and everything in its place. Like a damned old maid."

"Lay off. What about this west forty?"

"It's a lot more than forty." Brad was sketching as he talked. "The land is shaped like a pyramid with one straight side, with the base of the pyramid on the south, extending west. Actually, the boundary is roughly the road that runs to Heliopolis, and is a continuation of the southern boundary of the smaller piece of land. The lower, southern—I'd say eighth—of the land is nothing but an uncultivated field. The Negroes call it Flaming Meadows. There's some local superstition regarding it, and it's never been touched. It looks flat, but actually rises gently to a wooded area on the north. The rise becomes sharper there, continuing to the peak of the pyramid. Now. The eastern boundary is a river in the northern portion, Angel River. A little way south of the peak of the property there is a waterfall, quite a big one, and very beautiful. Below that, the river meets a diversion and splits, one branch of it running eastward, the other due south. The east branch doesn't concern us. The one that flows south is small, and it becomes known as Angel Creek. It seems wider than a creek to me, but only in California could it be called a river."

"Wait a minute. It's not actually a boundary after it reaches the Towers farm land? That land doesn't run as far north?"

"You're doing splendidly. It is not. It's merely a wide, flowing creek, or a narrow flowing river, whichever you prefer, passing through her property. There's an old-fashioned plank bridge over it in the roadway. If you're a good swimmer, it's grand on a hot day. The current's a little too strong for weaklings."

"Are you planning on building a resort or some such?"

"Quiet. I've just begun. Have some more coffee, and pour the old man some. Thanks. Now." David saw him draw a double line across the top of the lopsided pyramid he had sketched, then Crosshatch it. "Railroad," said Brad. "A branch line of the A and C. They leased it while ol' Miz Towers's husband was alive. A ninety-nine-year lease. The money changed a one-room cabin into a house, bought stock, and made it possible for the old man to set Abraham up in his own auto-repair garage. He's been at it ever since. Naturally, they didn't get what it was worth, but the railroad wasn't too unfair, considering railroads."

Brad turned the sketch he had been working on around, pushed it across the table until it lay in front of David, then leaned back in his chair. "So!" he said.

David studied it a moment, and looked across at Brad. "All right. So. What am I supposed to say?"

"Look at it again. Doesn't anything jump out at you?"

David obeyed, said, "Nothing but those phony trees you've sketched into the wooded area." He frowned. "Wait!" He looked across at Brad, eyebrows raised. "Industry?"

"Congratulations."

"Don't be sarcastic. I'm growing old, slowing down. Somebody wants the land. Specifically, a white somebody. Or somebodies. Possibly acting as a front for a northern or eastern industry, or trying to buy it for a song and resell at a big price." He studied the sketch again. "The obvious question: If whites are involved, how good is the title?"

"It's perfect. Not even a southern court could upset it. The land was bought by the first Towers to be freed from slavery, passed from father to son, again to son, and then from that son, Miz Towers's husband, to her. She has left it to Abraham. I've even seen her will, drawn up by a man named Murfree, a white attorney whose practice has been wrecked, whose home has been stoned, and who is close to being driven out of town because of his outspoken defense of the Negro cause."

"Watch out, Chief—"

"The chips have been down a score of times, David. He's never backed off. He's another Chuck Martin."

"God help him. And I hope you're right."

Brad shrugged. "I'm beginning to understand the desperation back of the Negro saying 'Man's gotta trust someone.' It's not misplaced in this instance, David."