Five Smooth Stones (11 page)

It was Joseph Champlin's voice that came to him, called to him, brought back the walls of the room, set his house around him again with its galleries and lacy ironwork, its staircase, its grace, its slave quarters in the rear. He knew it would never be free again of the evil he had just glimpsed.

"Prof," said the gentle voice of Li'l Joe, "Prof. I'm sorry. Swear to Gawd I didn't mean you to get upsetted like that. You asked me, Prof. I thought you knew till you asked me."

He had spent years in the United States, but now Bjarne Knudsen's adopted language failed him. He spoke in Danish briefly, profanely, not to Li'l Joe or to himself, but to what was in the room, and then, in English, said, "You have lived with it. All your life you have lived with it."

"Wasn't nothing I could do about it," said Li'l Joe reasonably. "It's in the past now, Professor. Don't do no good thinking on it too much. Things like that happened. Still happening, here and there, if you wants the truth."

"Always, Joe? Do you believe they will always happen?"

Joseph Champlin did not answer at first; then he shrugged. "Always will, I reckon, less'n we gets help, less'n we gets educated, learns how to fight it with law and stuff. Far as I can see, ain't nobody going to help us but ourselves, and we ain't got what it takes. Not here, not now."

"That is why, Li'l Joe, you want your David to have an education. Underneath that is why. Because of the first David Champlin."

"Mebbe so. Mebbe way back in my mind that's it."

Knudsen moved so quickly Joseph Champlin did not have time to stop him or offer help. He took their glasses, and in the kitchen poured out the stale drinks, and pulled open the refrigerator door with ill-controlled violence. He ran warm water over the ice-cube tray and wished he had never come to Louisiana. It would have been better if he had taken a professorship in the Northeast—or as his brother Karl had done, in the Midwest. The evil in some form would have been there too, but it would not have been an evil sanctioned and somehow made holy by tradition.

He had not asked his friend why the first David Champlin had died on a bonfire in a far-off field. He did not need to; there was always and eternally the One Reason, the Big Fear.

"Prey from the day they are born," said Knudsen aloud. He had often thought how every male Negro born in the South was marked for hunting. Even after he had been domesticated, he must be tamed like a pet lion cub, caged at maturity because of fear of its strength. Their maleness was an unsigned death warrant, its signature, the inadvertent glance, the mischance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or merely the tinder of suspicion sparked by nothing more than the flint of hate and fear. Let a white woman, be she whore or housewife, maiden or crone, strip herself naked before him, crawl into his bed, lay the white skin of her body against the brown of his, let her do it in fact or with her eyes and the movements of her body that her blood's heat dictated, then let her cry rape and he was for burning. Let a white man violate her and let her cry out the truth—that he had been white—yet a black was marked for burning because rape was abroad in the land.

Bjarne Knudsen thought: If I were a Christian I would think of the fear in the minds of the burners; I would pity them. But I am not a Christian. I am a nothing, yet I must stand before upturned white faces and try to teach them something they have never known, and will never know until their minds and hearts are changed—civilization.

When he returned with the drinks, he crossed the room to Joseph Champlin's chair, placed a hand on the other man's shoulder when he started to rise, and put the drink on the low table before the fireplace. He carried his own drink to the desk, but did not sit down; instead stood looking at the man almost lost in the big chair.

"You will believe me if I tell you something, Li'l Joe?"

"I always does," said Joseph Champlin.

Knudsen thought: You will not commit yourself utterly, not even to me, not even if committal imposes no obligations; the habit of noncommittal is so strong it is almost a reflex.

"Then believe me now. I promise you our boy in the hospital, your grandson, the great-grandson of the man who died so horribly, shall have his schooling. But it must be planned. We Danes are a methodical people, for all some call us overgrown pixies. He will not, in the long run, lose an inch of ground, I promise you. I do not know children, but I feel today I know this boy of yours, this David,
par coeur.
No child will have better tutoring—if he is up to it. Tell him this. But he must be up to it, Li'l Joe."

"He's up to it, Prof; he's sure up to it." The smile on the thin face drove some of the evil from Bjarne Knudsen's room. "You tell me what you wants done, Prof, and I'll do it Means working day and night, it don't matter. I'll do it."

CHAPTER 9

The porter on the Humming Bird watched the tall boy with the straight shoulders and gimpy leg settle himself into the seat by the window of the Jim Crow car. He had smiled at the boy when he boarded, but the smile had faded quickly. There was that in the boy's eyes that did not take to smiling, that did not smile back, although the lips formed a smile and the white teeth showed strong and clean in the tan face. The porter, Henry Sampson, puckered his forehead as he watched the youth make his way to his seat. Damn, it had to be Li'l Joe Champlin's grandson. He'd been seeing him around Beauregard for a helluva long time; lots of times when he went over the river from his home in New Orleans to visit his mother he'd see the boy, and he'd always be smiling, pleasant as you please; a polite boy, anyone could tell that, well brought up by his granddaddy. What was he doing on the Humming Bird headed for Cincinnati, not even getting on in Louisiana? Plenty of reason for him to get to Cincinnati— everyone knew the boy was planning to go to some college up that way—but why was he getting on here? Henry Sampson figured he could give a guess, he could give a helluva good guess after seeing the boy's face. "Them buses," he said to himself. Them damned Crow buses. The boy took hisself a bus and run into trouble. Lawd! It was plain as day the boy'd never been on a train before. Henry Sampson went over to the seat.

"Lemme show you how these chairs work, sir," he said, and saw the boy's eyes widen, the red anger in them die away a little. He showed him how to let the seat back, and how the leg rest came out. "Ain't quite long enough for them legs of yourn," he said, smiling. "Better'n nothing, though. Lemme get you a pillow so's you can relax good and res' yourself. Come night I'll fetch a blanket. Anything you wants, you ask for, y'hear?" He kept up a low murmur of conversation, brought the pillow, saw the boy's face soften, and thought, Ain't right, boy as young as that, looking like he done when he got on.

In a few minutes Henry Sampson returned. He had gone back to his own seat but had been unable to sit there, thinking of the boy. He put a hand on the back of the seat in front of David, leaned over the empty aisle chair, and said in a hoarse whisper, "How about a cup of coffee, son?" Not "sir" now. Boy needed gentling. "Man just been through here with the coffee and sandwiches; he ain't coming back for a while. I got me some coffee and a sandwich or two back here. You feeling peckish?"

Wasn't no doubt about who the boy was, now that he was smiling. Henry Sampson had been knowing the Champlins for a long time; he'd known Li'l Joe since they were boys, and known Evan and John, before John got killed, and it would be John who was this boy's father. He knew that Champlin smile good as a book.

When he brought the coffee and two sandwiches—that was a
big
boy—he smiled at the boy's thanks and said, "Shucks. Couldn't let Li'l Joe Champlin's grandson go hungry on my car."

The boy was grinning now. "How'd you know?" Then he glanced down at his feet. "Guess this gimpy leg gave me away."

"Never took no notice of that. Seen you in Beauregard lots of times. Knowed your granddaddy in New Orleans 'fore you was born. Knowed your Uncle Evan and your daddy, too. Thought I knowed you when I seen you get on. Soon's I seen you smile I was sure. Stretch out now, son, and take your rest—"

***

David Champlin stretched out as best he could, but he wasn't tired, just sick, the sickness he had come to know would always follow anger. It was a nausea, a gagging in the throat. He'd been subject to it ever since he was a kid, and the only thing he could do was ride it out.

Eventually the sickness slipped into the background in the novelty of train travel. All that remained was a determination not to go through with this business of a scholarship to Pengard College in a town called Laurel, Ohio, even if the Prof and his brother did have their minds set on it, even if the Profs brother was a nice guy and one of the big shots there. He thought of the Profs disappointment if he backed out now, and stopped thinking about it as quickly as he could. Maybe he wouldn't pass anyhow, on this trip up there; maybe he'd flunk the tests and not have to go there next fall. The Prof had said he was ready for second-year Latin, but he was lousy in math, and he supposed you had to be good in everything. "Not a white college." That was what the Prof and his brother had said. They'd said it was a college for everyone who wanted learning more than anything else; that there were students from Africa and Thailand and China and Japan—what the hell, it was still a white college, and he didn't want it.

Gramp had told the Prof and him that his grandmother had wanted him to learn to be an undertaker, and the Prof had blown up a Danish gale. "Better watch out for them windowpanes, Prof," Gramp had said, and laughed, and never mentioned the subject again. Now David wished Gramp had stood up to the big man. There wasn't anything, not a damned thing, wrong with being an undertaker. Maybe it was backing out on being a lawyer, what he'd wanted to be ever since he was a kid, but it would sure do what Gram had said: keep him away from the whites, even the dead ones.

There weren't many people on the bus, not even many colored in the back with him. He'd had two cups of coffee before he left home with Gramp in the morning, and two cokes on the ferry crossing and another cup of coffee in the bus station. By the time the bus slowed for the first "rest stop" he was gritting his teeth against the urgency of a full bladder. It was rough waiting for the whites to get off, and he didn't even notice that none of the Negroes he was sitting with stood up to leave. He heard one of them say, "Wait, son—" as he started down the aisle, but his discomfort was so great he paid no attention. Then just as the last white person, a man, stepped to the ground the driver said: "Get on back there and sit down, boy. Ain't no facilities for colored here —" and the bus doors closed.

"Jeez!" he gasped. "Look, I've got to get off—"

"Ain't no nigger on my bus got to do anything he ain't allowed to. Get back there like I said. You don't, you'll be using the can in the jailhouse. You make any trouble, boy, I'll call the police."

He turned from the door, dizzy with rage and discomfort. The driver was not looking at him, was counting change. David thought: "I'll kill you. Someday, you white son of a bitch, I'll catch up with you and kill you." No one in the back of the bus was going to help him. Trouble was stirring and they were all middle-aged and older people, and they did not look at him until he made his way back; then there were murmurs of protest and sympathy, but they were low and cautious, wouldn't carry to the front of the bus. David looked toward the front and saw the driver's face in the rear-vision mirror. It was a face with small, close-set eyes and a mouth so narrow the outer corners seemed even with the nostrils, and the face was smiling. He felt as though he had been touched by, smeared with, something inexpressibly filthy.

Twenty agonized minutes later, the bus began to slow down, and ahead of them David saw a railroad crossing. He saw nothing else, not even the little town off to the right or the railroad station at its outskirts, a quarter of a mile away. He knew only that the bus would have to stop at the crossing, and when they were almost there he was standing behind the driver, overnight bag in hand.

"You better let me off here." His voice was low. "You
better
let me off. I'm standing right behind you and I can't hold out much longer." He saw the back of the driver's neck redden, and the bus lurched as brakes were applied with vicious force. The doors opened, but closed again when he had only one foot on the ground, and he leaped forward, his game leg failing him at the last moment so that he sprawled headlong, hearing the driver's words, "Get out, nigger!" He knew the driver was saving face, making the passengers think he'd ordered a troublemaking nigger off his bus.

He relieved himself when the bus left, and, half sobbing with rage, limped toward the railroad station in the distance. But when he entered the station he was composed, the dirt from the highway brushed from his clothes, lips tightly set. At the ticket window he said, "I'm going to Cincinnati. Can I get there from here?"

"Humming Bird'll be along in about an hour. One way or round trip?"

"One—no. I want to go to Cincinnati, then back to New Orleans."

"Sell you round trip from here, boy, one way to New Orleans on the return." The wizened old man behind the ticket window might have been talking to a five-year-old, and he was kindly in the same manner he would have been to a five-year-old.

David paid for the ticket, thankful he'd won out in the humbug the night before between him and Gramp. He had said he was going to take most of his money with him, all he'd saved from jobs during fall and winter, and Gramp had objected strenuously.

"S'pose you loses it? Then what you got?"

"I won't lose it. Then if anything happens or I have to stay longer or something, I won't have to send for it."

He picked up his change—a ten and a one and some loose coins—and tucked the bills in his wallet. There better not be any more trouble, he thought: he'd never make it. He walked out to the platform, a tall boy with skin the color of light milk-chocolate, a small, well-shaped head with close-cropped hair that was well cared for and frequently disciplined by stocking caps, straight shoulders, slender hips, seeming to be relaxed, except for his eyes. He was wearing gray slacks and a blue pullover, with a fresh blue shirt open at the neck, the collar turned back over the sweater, and brown loafers. He looked as though he could run the mile in good time, snake a football through a line, pull them down from outer space in center field—until he walked, one leg a little shorter than the other, the foot and ankle stiff, but still covering ground with long strides, straight-backed, square-shouldered, somehow graceful in spite of the limp.