Five Smooth Stones (89 page)

Not everyone he talked with was in agreement about the school trouble. Listening to them, he wondered if he'd have had the courage to send David to a white school, if the same situation had existed when David was a child. He didn't think he would have; it would be worse for a boy. A little boy, even if he was still chubby and round-eyed, would make the whites madder than what a little girl would. 'Saiah had been right when he'd used that old-fashioned phrase, "Days of trouble coming."

Over a beer, Li'l Joe told his favorite bartender: "I ain't going to live to see it, and you ain't either, but the time's coming it won't be like this. But there's going to be blood running first. I said it before and I says it again—"

And the bartender replied: "Don't do to talk that way, Li'l Joe, not right now. They got ears, those walls have. Can't even trust some of our own. You know that."

"Been knowing it—"

But there had been some who were glad to have something to talk about besides the school hassle, and he showed them his passport and they talked of his trip and what he would see and learn, and because he was Li'l Joe Champlin they wished him well and smiled without envy at his straight, slim back when he left them. "Sure glad for him," they said to each other. "No better man around than Li'l Joe. Sure glad—"

As he started for the bus stop, tired now, knowing he would sleep when he got home, he turned a block off his course; he'd drop in on Pop and Emma Jefferson for a cup of coffee, say hello to Ambrose if he was at his taxi office next door.

Just ahead was the building that used to be Guastella's bootleg club in the days of Prohibition and the depression. He seldom passed it he didn't remember the night years before when he had found ten dollars on the floor of the men's toilet, and how he'd gone home thinking about the things the ten dollars would buy that he and Geneva had needed so bad.

There hadn't been a night since Geneva had passed, all those years ago, he hadn't thought of her on his way home, half convincing himself a lot of times that she'd be there, just like tonight when he could almost see her, good as real, in the kitchen, happy in the new house, happy with the things he'd bought for her, smiling-happy with the boy, with David.

It was when he started across the street at the corner where Guastella's used to be that the footsteps behind him entered his conscious mind. That wasn't anything new. Lawd! some whites thought it was funny to follow a colored man, make him nervous, just, he supposed, so the colored man would know the whites were still around, watching everything he did. Best thing to do was stay near the curb, cross the street, and head for an all-colored bar and go inside and mingle till whoever it was had gone by; they'd be laughing, more'n likely.

But now, hearing the footsteps, remembering the stories he'd heard earlier, feeling the tension in the streets, he knew an old fear, and quickened his steps, his breathing faster, shorter, under the pressure of fear, the controlled hurry.

The footsteps did not stay behind him, came abreast of him, one on each side, and he rolled his eyes quickly from right to left and saw two young men in sports shirts, sweaters, and jeans, both fair-haired, fair-skinned, with duckwing haircuts, distinguishable from each other in Li'l Joe's eyes only because the one on the right was taller.

The taller one spoke first, over Li'l Joe's head, to the other. "He's a scrawny li'l ol' nigger—"

"Yeah. Too old to bother with—"

"Hell, man, we've got him. What'll we do with him?"

"Turn him loose. He's under the limit." They both laughed.

These boys were just trying to give him a bad time; Li'l Joe told himself that, knew it to be true; they were just acting smart, but there was fear in him tonight, so much had been happening, and the fear was a heaviness in his chest and belly, a weakness in his legs. He found words, fighting off the shortness of breath, the weakness. "Ain't you young uns got nothing better to do than bully an old man?"

"We ain't bullying you, boy. You come along with us—"

"Let him alone. People are looking—"

"Hell, no. We said we'd show these black bastards what we thought of 'em, didn't we?"

Li'l Joe heard a "snick," saw metal gleam in the taller boy's hand. They were getting closer now to Ambrose's; in a minute he'd risk the metal and make a break for it. "You coming along with us peaceable," the tall youth was saying. "Real peaceable." He snickered. "Hell, you ain't fit for much more than kindling wood. Not enough fat on those bones to make a good fire—nothing but spindly ol' kindling."

Somewhere inside Li'l Joe a child was screaming—"Ma! Ma!—My daddy didn't burn! Did he, Ma? Ma! Mai
Mamma!"
and then the pain came, blotting out the little boy, tearing his chest in two, searing his arm and lancing into his mouth—came and went and came again, worse then, and he didn't have any legs, and the pavement rose and struck him and he lay there, gasping, while from somewhere a long way above him someone said, "Run! For Christ's sake, get going—" There was the sound of metal hitting the pavement beside him; then there were only the pain in his chest and the gasping struggle for the air that wasn't there. Strong arms cradled him, and a familiar voice said, "Li'l Joe. Li'l Joe!— Hey, you guys, call an ambulance! Li'l Joe, it's Ambrose. Can you hear me, Li'l Joe?"

Now he was forcing words out, each word a mountain to be pushed across a desert of hot pain: "David—David—tell David—needs—needs David—"

"All right, Li'l Joe; all right, now. Easy—easy—David'll come—
Christalmighty! He's gone—"

But he hadn't gone, not for the space of another gasping breath, not for the length of time it took for the words to reach him through the fog of pain. "David'll come." What came after didn't matter because he couldn't hear the words as the pain gave over to peace.

CHAPTER 57

"Sara," said David. "Sara, baby, go home. Will you please for God's sake go home!"

"Why, sweet? Why—why—" She pirouetted in the center of the room in stockinged feet, one shoe in her hand, then stopped, arms wide, breasts high and small under the lacy top of her slip. Her eyes were glowing.

"Because, baby, I've got to pack.
I've got to pack,
that's why. Look, hon; look at this mess. And everything in sight has to get into a Val-Pak and an overnight bag. I should have done it this afternoon, woman."

"And I stopped you?" She was laughing now, perched cross-legged on a chair, jumping down to sit on the edge of the rumpled couch, searching for the missing shoe, then on her feet again, tiptoe. "Because I came to help you? That's why you didn't get it done? Poor David. Poor, dear, David. Oh, David, David, I love you so. What day is it? What day is it, David?"

"Monday. And it's night, damn it, Monday night."

She was dancing again, holding the single shoe in outstretched hand, kicking at it. "And what will it be a week from today? What day will it be then?"

David reached out and caught her with both hands on her waist, holding her still, looking down at her. "Wedding day, gal."

"David, it—I can't breathe when I think of it. Honestly, I can't breathe when I think of it. And I thought after all that's happened and we'd been together so much, and slept together, and cleaned our teeth together, eaten breakfast together—I thought it would be just like any other day. And now I can't breathe when I think of it. Kiss me, David."

"No! No, for God's sake. Sara, go home. I love you, Sara, but
I
have to pack.
You want me to telephone the State Department in the morning and say, 'Sorry, sirs, Champlin unable to report for scheduled interviews due to unforeseen circumstances, to wit: a seduction.' After this afternoon, yet!"

"They won't know about this afternoon. Just tell them you were seduced tonight. Tell them it had been so long since you'd made love—two whole hours—that you couldn't—"

"Sara!"

"Sweet, I'm kidding. I'll go home now, and you'll pick me up in the morning and we'll fly into London town, and tomorrow night we'll be with Sudsy and Rhoda. And then you'll go to Geneva and I'll wait and die—just
die
while I'm waiting for you. David, will you stop loving me those four days you're in Geneva?"

"I haven't stopped loving you in ten years. Now, Sara, Smallest, please—"

"Say it again and I'll go, David. Oh, David, love can be hell when it's like this. The end of the world could be just around the corner. The end of the whole damned world. Kiss me and tell me again you haven't stopped loving me in ten years and then I'll go."

"Put your clothes on, baby. Your dress and your shoes and your coat and your hat. Then I'll kiss you and say anything you want."

"You're a beast." She spoke from behind the folds of her dress as she slipped it over her head. "A brown horrid beast and I hate you—" She was digging the other shoe from beneath the couch. "Hate you so bad I could eat you alive." She stood. "Zip me, darling. You don't zip as well as you unzip but you zip fairly—"

"Zip yourself, idiot! You've got two pretty little hands, and the zipper's in front—"

"As well you know, beast. Where's my coat? Where's my damned coat? And my damned hat—I have to go through this, he puts me through this, just to get a kiss. All right, David. All right, lover. I'm ready to be kissed."

David had been crouched, back to the room, searching for stray socks in the corners of the bottom drawer of the captain's chest. Now he rose and faced her where she stood, very still and quiet, in the center of the room, silly little hat set squarely on shining dark hair, eyes glowing still.

"God, yes," he said. "You are. You sure are."

He caught her in his arms, lifted her so that her feet swung clear of the floor, kissed her, and while he kissed her, carried her to the door. One arm still around her, he opened the door and at last set her on the other side of the threshold.

"Sara, Sara, run. Run like hell, and I'll see you in the morning. Early in the morning. Be ready."

"You'll be there, David? Early, early?"

" 'Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat'—"

" 'Nor gloom of night'—"

He reached out to her where she stood, just outside the threshold, touched her cheek gently with long brown fingers, drew his hand back and said, "Just for a little while, sweet."

She smiled almost shyly, almost as though he were a stranger, and he heard her whisper, "God bless." Then she turned and walked down the hall. He watched her until he felt her name welling up into his throat, crowding his lips, and shut the door quickly.

He stood for a long time looking at the closed door. "You lucky bastard," he said, half aloud. "You lucky, lucky bastard."
You pays for your luck somehow, one way or another.

"This kind of luck you can't pay for, Gramp. This is right; this is life being right. It's more than luck."

He found himself grinning foolishly, standing there alone, and he turned to go back to his packing. He had not reached the captain's chest on the far side of the room before the telephone rang.

***

Pop Jefferson was waiting at the airport when David arrived in New Orleans. He was quiet, for Pop, saying little, putting an arm across David's shoulders and leading him through the half-light of dawn to the place where Ambrose was waiting with his ancient cab.

"Sure sorry about this, David," said Pop. "Sure sorry. Wasn't a better man in all New Orleans than your grandaddy. Been some kids it wouldn't have bothered me so much, but you and Li'l Joe was mighty close."

At the cab Ambrose reached out a hand, took David's, and mumbled something David could not catch but knew to be kind. Already the warm darkness of the world he had been born into was closing round him, the understanding of his people cradling his grief. Nothing of the quiet outer world through which they were passing intruded; they were a unit, the three men in the shabby taxi, the young man in his first real grief, the older men sharing it because they had been born, as he had, to a universal grief, had all felt and shared a larger, more impersonal pain throughout their lifetimes.

All of them were big men physically, and David sat in the back seat with his bag and typewriter, while Pop rode in front with Ambrose, half turned, one arm across the back of the seat, his cigar silhouetted against the windshield.

"You have a good trip, son?" he asked. "Good's it could be, I mean."

"Yes," said David. "Fine. Smooth all the way except for a little bit just before we landed."

It had been a relief to get on the plane. He remembered thinking as he walked down the aisle that this might be the last time he would make this trip. If he could clear up any business connected with Gramp's "li'l piece of property" before he returned to New York, there would be nothing left to bring him back. He would never have to leave Sara again except on trips connected with his work; there would be no need again to split himself into two persons emotionally, one drawn back to New Orleans by a man known as Li'l Joe Champlin, the other held back by a small vibrant girl like a bird whose heart was eternally in her eyes and who held his whole universe in warm, slender hands.

It might even be, he thought, that on this trip he would be seeing for the last time those festering sores that were the outer signs of the South's inner sickness, the signs "White" and "Colored." A circumstance, he thought grimly as he settled into his seat, that would in no way mean that he would forget them.

Chittock had been understanding when, by good luck and hard work on the part of the long-distance operator, he had been tracked down to a Washington restaurant.

Don't worry about it, Chittock said, and David knew the sympathy in his voice was genuine. God knew, the checking they had done on him had probably resulted in a detailed account even of Gramp and Tant'Irene teaching him how to use a knife and fork. Chittock had said he would get through to London and Geneva in the morning, set David's appointments up for later. "A week?" he asked, then, without waiting for an answer, "Ten days. I imagine there will be property to be settled."

The fight for composure had begun when he called Sara. At first there had been things to do: his plane reservation to London to cancel, another reservation to be made for a night plane to New Orleans, Chittock to be called. The fact that Gramp was gone did not sink into his consciousness. Chittock's words "property to be settled" were the first touch of the probe on the nerve of his grief.