Five Smooth Stones (117 page)

So this was Murfree, the man from the other side of Main Street that Brad said could be counted on. David kept his eyes on Murfree's face, not caring that it might be rude, wanting to size him up, afraid of a snap judgment, distrusting, doubtful. He'd had a damned bellyful of "moderates." Left to his judgment no so-and-so-ing "moderate" would have been in this room tonight. Then the thought flicked through his mind that no "moderate" would have come there. If Murfree had been a southern "moderate," a small group would have been meeting in his office, listening to words of wisdom and sweet reason. For a moment he wished tiredly that all whites would either suddenly be missing or remain foes. Maybe, he thought, the Black Muslims have something after all. He was tired unto death of knowing that most white hands outstretched to his people wore gloves, that the grip of a white hand on his own was not so strong as the grip of that same hand on the knife handle of betrayal.

Murfree must have felt his gaze, for he turned his head now and their eyes met, and David had a squirmy feeling of embarrassment that the other man had read his thoughts. Murfree did not smile, and David sensed a flinching of the other's mind, as though from pain. "You'll have to take me on faith, Champlin."

David felt bewildered at his own reaction because when he spoke it was with intent to comfort, to reassure. "Of course. That's all any of us can do, isn't it? On either side."

Gracie set out coffee cups, cream and sugar, beer for those who wanted it, bread, crackers, and platters of sliced cheese and cold meats. Chuck, sitting in the next chair, laid a hand on David's knee.

"You-all sure you're all right?" Anxiety thickened his accent.

"Far as I know. Brad and Fred ran me over to Doc Anderson's. He says I'll live. Assorted bruises, bumps, contusions, abrasions. Maybe a couple of floating kidneys. Where were you when the lights went out?"

"God help me, in my own room. Asleep. I had what is known in these parts as a 'summer cold' coming on. I'd been up since before day, so I ate soup and ice cream about five, and a little later took a bath, a hot toddy, and some aspirin, and then died. Plumb died. Next thing I knew I was standing at the window looking at hell. Gives a man a shock."

David grinned. Chuck could always act on him like some kind of medicine taken for vertigo. "What'd you do?"

Chuck sighed. "Nothing. There wasn't anything I could do. By the time I could take it in, the boys with cattle goads and clubs were in full swing. There was no stopping any of it. All I could have done—and darned if I didn't start for the door —was stand on the steps and pray over 'em. All I had on was my pajama tops."

The effort to choke back the laugh was almost as painful to David's sore ribs and chest muscles as the laugh itself would have been. He was remembering a mass hysteria that had swept a mixed crowd in the quadrangle at Pengard the night of a fire in Chuck's dormitory, when Chuck, dead asleep, had been routed out by a fireman and had come tearing down the steps carrying a carton of milk and a bottle of beer—clad only in his pajama tops.

He swallowed the last quiver of his laugh as Hummer Sweeton's body was suddenly between them. He was leaning forward, his hands on the tabletop, the deep-set eyes seeming to take in everyone in the room.

"What we going to do about them chilren?
What we going to do about them?
You-all hear that rain, or you-all talking too much?"

The sound of talk stopped; even the blue haze of smoke that was beginning to cloud the room seemed to lift before the blast of Sweeton's words.

Murfree had been sitting quietly beside Haskin, arms folded on the table. He looked directly at Sweeton, without moving, and in spite of himself David found himself liking the look. It was intense, direct, without softness or compassion or phony "understanding."

"Chuck Martin and I have just come from City Hall, Reverend," said Murfree. "They released the children under ten—"

"Under ten!" Forsyte's interruption was explosive.

"There were a few, Les. They are home now. Those between ten and twelve will be released in the morning. They said. The others are being held for juvenile-court hearings. We did our best."

"That still don't answer my question," said Sweeton. "They going to stay where they are? Them chilren going to stay in that there stockade? Going to stay there like lambs in a slaughterhouse pen, all night, in the rain?"

Chuck said: "They've arranged shelter. A big tarp across the east end with flaps. The kids have the flaps back; that's why you can hear them singing. Some group is going to collect bedrolls and blankets from their families—"

"That's Goddamned kind of them!" David could feel his stomach knotting with sick, disgusted anger.

Murfree turned to David. "They think so," he said. "God help us all, they think so." He turned back to Hummer. "Mr. Sweeton, I don't know all of what happened tonight. I saw part of it, coming back from Otisville, driving south on Main Street. I was turned back just north of the old warehouse. I saw what happened to Champlin. Had there been anyone with me in the car—I travel alone these days—they would tell you that I was actively nauseated." The white face looked intolerably tired. "What I saw you do did me a world of good, Champlin."

David felt his defenses of doubt crumbling at Murfree's smile, faint though it was. He tried to shore them up, but knew they were not as strong as they had been when he first met this man. This was not the reaction of the true moderate, this rejoicing at a low blow to a white man's groin..

"The chilren," repeated Sweeton. "Them chilren—"

"Will be there for tonight. Tomorrow some of the adults will be released on bail. If, of course, they can raise the bail. Some of the kids are inside. I suppose as more space becomes available, they'll move the others in." He passed one hand over his face in a weary gesture. "I'm afraid my advocacy may have done more harm than good."

Haskin spoke for the first time. "Don't feel that way, Mr. Murfree. Couldn't no one have got those kids turned loose. They aimin' to make an example of 'em, ship 'em off to that human cattle ranch they done built north of here. That deetention home."

"Yes," said Murfree. "They mentioned further talks in the morning. They said, and I quote, 'Their ringleaders will hear from us.'" He stirred in his chair and, watching him, David had the feeling that he was smarting from a recent humiliation. "Before I leave tonight, I do want to say one thing. I'm honored by your confidence." The dark, intense eyes ranged round the room, took in all its occupants. "There is no one on the other side of Main Street who, to my knowledge, knows your plans. Suspicion, yes. Knowledge, no. There is no knowing what tonight's fiasco has made of those plans. But let me point something out to all of you. Your opponents are not divided. They present a solid front. I am not completely alone in my thinking, only in my actions, but those of us in the background who share my feeling have about as much influence and weight at this time as a chapter of the Anti-Defamation League of the B'nai B'rith would have had in Nazi Germany."

The man's spoiling for a lynching, thought David; he's Klan bait pure and simple. What had happened between this man's birth and childhood, and now? Where had the break come? When had he first started swimming upstream, against the current, to clear headwaters, instead of drifting downstream to the swampy delta lands of his fellows?

The rumbles of assent to Murfree's talk rolled around the room, spent themselves, but before anyone could speak there was the sound of a door slamming, the thud' of feet, and a breathless Garnett stood beneath the archway. David had not heard Fred Winters's voice until now, and the words crackled: "Where the hell have you been?"

"Man!" Garnett's familiar, high-pitched wail answered. "Man! Get off my back! They helt me back!"

"Who 'helt you back'?" David's voice did not crackle; it purred.

"Them guys over there in City Hall. They called me in after Lawyer Murfree and Chuck left. Man, I been in jail!"

"How come you was over there, Garnett?" Sweeton put the question.

"I'm tryin' to tell you. I got trapped. I was in that drugstore over there on Third getting me some stuff for my piles. It's the only place carries what I want. The guy's coming on with a lot of jazz about how there's something better, and then I looks out the window and I seen po-lice and people hurryin' toward Calhoun and I says 'Gimme what I ast for' and I pays for it and heads outa there runnin'. I never even got to Calhoun before they grabs me. Them kids was marching then, I mean
marching,
up that street."

David only half heard the remainder of Garnett's story. It wasn't worth trying to sort the lies from the truth when Garnett was talking anytime. The gist of it, the part that was capable of verification, was that he had sat out the demonstration in a jail cell. ("Man, I hadn't done
nothin'!")
Later, when it was over, they had taken him to City Hall. "Them kids, them pore kids in that stockade, having to walk right through 'em. Man, it was a shock."

"Never mind that," snapped Winters. "What happened in City Hall?"

When Garnett said, "They's something funny going on—" David had absorbed all he could take in silence. "Wait. Let me tell them, Garnett. You must be all worn out. Three hours in jail and piles and all." The plump face turned to him, and for a moment the anger was plain in the wide eyes; then the plump smile obscured it. Garnett said, "You wasn't there—" and David's voice knifed through the other's, cutting him short.

"I don't have to have been there. After Mr. Murfree and Chuck left, they brought you in. They wanted some nice reasonable talk-talks in the morning, and they wanted you to act as emissary."

Brad and Murfree and the man he had not yet met, Abraham Towers, as well as Mrs. Towers, had evidently done a good job in keeping quiet about the Towers land deal. He had no doubt whatever that any conciliatory move from the other side of Main Street was made with that in mind. Garnett's puzzlement, at least, was genuine. But they had ignored Murfree and Chuck, shown clear preference for dealing with Garnett, identifying him with Sweeton and the others.

It took the whites to spot some colored, he thought; took the whites to put them, in some cities, on police forces, help them get civil service jobs, even help them get elected to city councils, put on school boards, and, in red-necked towns like Cainsville, get steady jobs with more pay. It took the whites to see the yellow streak and take advantage of it, to know the meaning of
quid pro quo
and when the
quo
was the quieting of a troublemaking voice; took them to spot the sickest, most bruised psyches and offer balm. He'd give the whites credit for this much insight.

David turned painfully in his chair and saw Brad standing by the window alone. He couldn't trust his own control if he listened to Garnett any longer. There would be a loud spate of talk and argument for a while; let it run itself out. He got to his feet, and Brad started forward, frowning, motioning him back to his chair.

Garnett was talking again. "That's about it. They wants to talk to a committee in the morning."

"In the
morning
—" The words came from more than one person in the room.

"There ain't no use pushin' it tonight. All them big shots, the mayor and the po-lice chief and Banker Spangler—he was there—was going home when I left. They sent a po-liceman over with me—"

Had Garnett tried, even tried, to keep the puling, revealing pride out of his voice when he said, "They sent a po-liceman over with me—"?

Then he remembered Sue-Ellen. He caught Murfree's eye and said, "What about Sue-Ellen Moore? Do you know what happened to her?"

"She was one of the first picked up. Remember, she was in the front line."

"Hell!" He was surprised at the force of his own reaction to the news of Sue-Ellen's being jailed. She'd loused them up thoroughly, gotten a bunch of hot-headed kids in an open stockade and an overcrowded jail, but she'd done it because it seemed to her the right thing to do. The wrong things for the right reasons—that was Sue-Ellen, and he didn't like to think of her in jail for God knew how long. One damned sure thing, Sue-Ellen would see 'em all in hell before she'd do what Garnett had done. Which was why Garnett was free and smug and she was in jail. And without doubt, he reflected with some satisfaction, giving them all as bad a time as she knew how. Which would be bad.

"It's all right. I've stiffened up already, sitting so damned long. Better to move around." He joined Brad at the window. "Helluva mess, isn't it?"

Brad shrugged, looking tired. "I'm sorry you're in it, David. I should have kept my mouth shut."

"Nuts. I came. And you didn't bring me. You didn't ask for a damned thing except advice."

Brad said bitterly: "One lousy little town, in a crumby, corrupt southern state, and all the evils of man contained in it. What have we got even if we win?"

"What the hell, Brad! Lay off that—"

"You could have been killed tonight—"

"I wasn't."

"No, but if you had been, somebody would probably have won a promotion. One troublemaking nigger less—"

"The guy who shot you was probably bucking for sergeant—"

"Win or lose, it's going to go on. And on—"

"And on. Trouble with you, Brad, is that you're too new to the South, even yet. You don't realize that one Negro having a cup of coffee at a counter in a white restaurant can almost be compared to Iwo Jima. He's the flag they put on top."

"A dead flag. That's good?"

"It's one hell of a lot better than none."

"You're..."

They both jumped involuntarily at a loud CRACK! behind them, wood hitting wood, and turned to see Haskin standing at the head of the table, a gavel in his hand. Sweeton was standing beside him; Murfree had risen and was standing against the wall with Winters and Les Forsyte.

"You-all quiet down!" There was valid authority in Haskin's voice. The sound of talk died out, and Haskin went on: "We agreed to send a committee over in the morning? Reverend Sweeton, Reverend Martin, Mr. Winters, Lawyer Willis, Lawyer Champlin—"