Flying Home (7 page)

He heard her voice trail off to a tortured moan behind her trembling lips. Tears streamed down her face. James was miserable; he did not like to see Mama cry, and turned his eyes to the window as she began wiping away the tears. He
was glad she was through now because the butcher would be coming back into the car in a few minutes. He did not want a white man to see Mama cry.

They were crossing a river now. The slanting girders of a bridge moved slowly past the train. The river was muddy and red, rushing along beneath them. The train stopped, and the baby was pointing to a cow on the banks of the river below. The cow stood gazing out over the water, chewing her cud—looking like a cow in the baby’s picture book, only there were no butterflies about her head.

“Bow-wow!” the baby said. Then, questioningly: “Bowwow?”

“No, Lewis, it’s a cow,” James said. “Moo,” he said. “Cow.” The baby laughed, delighted. “Moo-oo.” He was very interested.

James watched the water. The train was moving again, and he wondered why his mother cried. It wasn’t just that Daddy was gone; it didn’t sound just that way. It was something else. I’ll kill it when I get big, he thought. I’ll make it cry just like it’s making Mama cry!

The train was passing an oil field. There were many wells in the field; and big round tanks, gleaming like silver in the sun. One well was covered with boards and looked like a huge Indian wigwam against the sky. The wells all pointed straight up at the sky. Yes, I’ll kill it. I’ll make it cry. Even if it’s God, I’ll make God cry, he thought. I’ll kill Him; I’ll kill God and not be sorry!

The train jerked, gaining speed, and the wheels began clicking a ragged rhythm to his ears. There were many advertising signs in the fields they were rolling past. All the
signs told about the same things for sale. One sign showed a big red bull and read
BULL DURHAM
.

“Moo-oo,” the baby said.

James looked at his mother; she was through crying now, and she smiled. He felt some of his tightness ebb away. He grinned. He wanted very much to kiss her, but he must show the proper reserve of a man now. He grinned. Mama was beautiful when she smiled. He made a wish never to forget what she had said. “This is 1924, and I’ll never forget it,” he whispered to himself. Then he looked out the window, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, wondering how much farther they would have to ride, and if there would be any boys to play football in McAlester.

From
New Masses
, November 4, 1941

“I
hope they all gits rotten and the worms git in ’em,” the first boy said.

“I hopes a big wind storm comes and blows down all the trees,” said the second boy.

“Me too,” the first boy said. “And when ole Rogan comes out to see what happened I hope a tree falls on his head and kills him.”

“Now jus look a-yonder at them birds,” the second boy said. “They eating all they want and when we asked him to let us git some off the ground he had to come calling us little nigguhs and chasing us home!”

“Doggonit,” said the second boy. “I hope them birds got poison in they feet!”

The two small boys, Riley and Buster, sat on the floor of the porch, their bare feet resting upon the cool earth as they stared past the line on the paving where the sun consumed the shade, to a yard directly across the street. The grass in the yard was very green, and a house stood against it, neat and white in the morning sun. A double row of trees stood alongside the house, heavy with cherries that showed deep red against the dark green of the leaves and dull dark brown of the branches. The two boys were watching an old man who rocked himself in a chair as he stared back at them across the street.

“Just look at him,” said Buster. “Ole Rogan’s so scared we gonna git some a his ole cherries he ain’t even got sense enough to go in outa the sun!”

“Well, them birds is gitting their’n,” said Riley.

“They mockingbirds.”

“I don’t care what kinda birds they is, they sho in them trees.”

“Yeah, ole Rogan don’t see
them.
Man, I tell you white folks ain’t got no sense.”

They were silent now, watching the darting flight of the birds into the trees. Behind them they could hear the clatter of a sewing machine: Riley’s mother was sewing for the white folks. It was quiet, and as the woman worked, her voice rose above the whirring machine in song.

“Your mama sho can sing, man,” said Buster.

“She sings in the choir,” said Riley, “and she sings all the leads in church.”

“Shucks, I know it,” said Buster. “You tryin’ to brag?”

As they listened they heard the voice rise clear and liquid to float upon the morning air:

She sang as though the words possessed a deep and throbbing meaning for her, and the boys stared blankly at the earth, feeling the somber, mysterious calm of church. The street was quiet, and even old Rogan had stopped rocking to listen. Finally the voice trailed off to a hum and became lost in the clatter of the busy machine.

“Wish I could sing like that,” said Buster.

Riley was silent, looking down to the end of the porch where the sun had eaten a bright square into the shade, fixing a flitting butterfly in its brilliance.

“What would you do if you had wings?” he said.

“Shucks, I’d outfly an eagle. I wouldn’t stop flying till I was a million, billion, trillion, zillion miles away from this ole town.”

“Where’d you go, man?”

“Up north, maybe to Chicago.”

“Man, if I had wings I wouldn’t never settle down.”

“Me neither. Hecks, with wings you could go anywhere, even up to the sun if it wasn’t too hot …”

“… I’d go to New York …”

“Even around the stars …”

“Or Dee-troit, Michigan …”

“Hell, you could git some cheese off the moon and some milk from the Milky Way …”

“Or anywhere else colored is free …”

“I bet I’d loop-the-loop …”

“And parachute …”

“I’d land in Africa and git me some diamonds …”

“Yeah, and them cannibals would eat the hell outa you, too,” said Riley.

“The heck they would, not fast as I’d fly away …”

“Man, they’d catch you and stick some them long spears in your behin’!” said Riley.

Buster laughed as Riley shook his head gravely: “Boy, you’d look like a black pincushion when they got through with you,” said Riley.

“Shucks, man, they couldn’t catch me, them suckers is too lazy. The geography book says they ’bout the most lazy folks in the whole world,” said Buster with disgust, “just black and lazy!”

“Aw naw, they ain’t neither,” exploded Riley.

“They is too! The geography book says they is!”

“Well, my ole man says they ain’t!”

“How come they ain’t then?”

“ ’Cause my old man says that over there they got kings and diamonds and gold and ivory, and if they got all them things, all of ’em caint be lazy,” said Riley. “Ain’t many colored folks over here got them things.”

“Sho ain’t, man. The white folks won’t let ’em,” said Buster.

It was good to think that all the Africans were not lazy. He tried to remember all he had heard of Africa as he watched
a purple pigeon sail down into the street and scratch where a horse had passed. Then, as he remembered a story his teacher had told him, he saw a car rolling swiftly up the street and the pigeon stretching its wings and lifting easily into the air, skimming the top of the car in its slow, rocking flight. He watched it rise and disappear where the taut telephone wires cut the sky above the curb. Buster felt good. Riley scratched his initials in the soft earth with his big toe.

“Riley, you know all them Africa guys ain’t really that lazy,” he said.

“I know they ain’t,” said Riley. “I just tole you so.”

“Yeah, but my teacher tole me, too. She tole us ’bout one of the African guys named Toussan what she said whipped Napoleon!”

Riley stopped scratching in the earth and looked up, his eye rolling in disgust: “Now how come you have to start lying?”

“Thass what she said.”

“Boy, you oughta quit telling them things.”

“I hope God may kill me.”

“She said he was a
African?”

“Cross my heart, man …”

“Really?”

“Really, man. She said he come from a place named Hayti.”

Riley looked hard at Buster and, seeing the seriousness of the face, felt the excitement of a story rise up within him.

“Buster, I’ll bet a fat man you lyin’. What’d that teacher say?”

“Really, man, she said that Toussan and his men got up
on one of them African mountains and shot down them peckerwood soldiers fass as they’d try to come up …”

“Why good-God-a-mighty!” yelled Riley.

“Oh boy, they shot ’em down!” chanted Buster.

“Tell me about it, man!”

“And they throwed ’em off the mountain …”

“… Goool-leee!…”

“… And Toussan drove ’em cross the sand …”

“… Yeah! And what was they wearing, Buster?…”

“Man, they had on red uniforms and blue hats all trimmed with gold and they had some swords all shining, what they called sweet blades of Damascus …”

“Sweet blades of Damascus!…”

“… They really had ’em,” chanted Buster.

“And what kinda guns?”

“Big, black cannon!”

“And where did ole what you call ’im run them guys?…”

“His name was Toussan.”

“Toozan! Just like Tarzan …”

“Not Taar-zan, dummy, Toou-zan!”

“Toussan! And where’d ole Toussan run ’em?”

“Down to the water, man …”

“… To the river water …”

“… Where some great big ole boats was waiting for ’em …”

“… Go on, Buster!”

“An’ Toussan shot into them boats …”

“… He shot into ’em …”

“… shot into them boats …”

“Jesus!…”

“… with his great big cannons …”

“… Yeah!…”

“… made a-brass …”

“… Brass …”

“… an’ his big black cannonballs started killin’ them peckerwoods …”

“… Lawd, Lawd …”

“… Boy, till them peckerwoods hollowed,
Please, Please, Mister Toussan, we’ll be good!”

“An’ what’d Toussan tell ’em, Buster?”

“Boy, he said in his deep voice,
I oughta drown all a you bastards.”

“An’ what’d the peckerwoods say?”

“They said,
Please, Please, Please, Mister Toussan …”

“… We’ll be good,” broke in Riley.

“Thass right, man,” said Buster excitedly. He clapped his hands and kicked his heels against the earth, his black face glowing in a burst of rhythmic joy.

“Boy!”

“And what’d ole Toussan say then?”

“He said in his big deep voice:
You all peckerwoods better be good, ’cause this is sweet Papa Toussan talking and my nigguhs is crazy ’bout white meat!”

“Ho, ho, ho!” Riley bent double with laughter. The rhythm still throbbed within him and he wanted the story to go on and on …

“Buster, you know didn’t no teacher tell you that lie,” he said.

“Yes she did, man.”

“She said there was really a guy like that what called hisself Sweet Papa Toussan?”

Riley’s voice was unbelieving, and there was a wistful expression
in his eyes that Buster could not understand. Finally he dropped his head and grinned.

“Well,” he said, “I bet thass what ole Toussan said. You know how grown folks is, they caint tell a story right ’cepting real old folks like Granma.”

“They sho caint,” said Riley. “They don’t know how to put the right stuff to it.”

Riley stood, his legs spread wide, and stuck his thumbs in the top of his trousers, swaggering sinisterly.

“Come on, watch me do it now, Buster. Now I bet ole Toussan looked down at them white folks standing just about like this and said in a soft easy voice:
Ain’t I done begged you white folks to quit messin’ with me?…”

“Thass right, quit messing with ’im,” chanted Buster.

“But naw, you all had to come on anyway …”

“… Just ’cause they was black …”

“Thass right,” said Riley. “Then ole Toussan felt so damn bad and mad the tears came a-trickling down …”

“… He was really mad.”

“And then, man, he said in his big, bad voice:
Goddamn you white folks, how come you all caint let us colored alone?”

“… An’ he was crying …”

“… An’ Toussan tole them peckerwoods:
I been beggin’ you all to quit bothering us …”

“… Beggin’ on his bended knees!…”

“Then, man, Toussan got real mad and snatched off his hat and started stompin’ up and down on it and the tears was tricklin’ down and he said:
You all come tellin’ me about Napoleon …”

“They was tryin’ to scare ’im, man …”

“Said:
I don’t give a damn about Napoleon …”

“… Wasn’t studyin’ ’bout him …”

“… Toussan said:
Napoleon ain’t nothing but a man!
Then Toussan pulled back his shining sword like this, and twirled it at them peckerwoods’ throats so hard it z-z-z-zinged in the air!”

“Now keep on, finish it, man,” said Buster. “What’d Toussan do then?”

“Then you know what he did, he said:
I oughta beat the hell outa you peckerwoods!”

“Thass right, and he did it too,” said Buster. He jumped to his feet and fenced violently with five desperate imaginary soldiers, running each through with his imaginary sword. Buster watched him from the porch, grinning.

“Toussan musta scared them white folks almost to death!”

“Yeah, thass ’bout the way it was,” said Buster. The rhythm was dying now and he sat back upon the porch, breathing tiredly.