If He Hollers Let Him Go (29 page)

‘We’ll just wait here,’ he said, standing.

I stood a little away from him without replying. The dream was so real I kept thinking they had me in for murder. Then I began remembering the incidents of the day before, the stretch of Madge’s big brutal mouth yelling, ‘Rape,’ the hammer floating at my head and not being able to dodge it, coming to on the hospital cot. Then the break, the drive back to town. When my mind came to the talk with Alice I tried not to think about it, but it came back anyway. Now she’d know once and for all. They had me and they were going to throw the book at me. I didn’t have any hope at all of beating it; I didn’t even feel like making the effort any more; I’d just as soon take a plea and get it to hell over with. I felt like a different person, I didn’t have any fight left, didn’t even hate the peckerwoods any more, didn’t have anything left in me at all any more. What I hated most about the whole thing was I had to keep on living in the goddamned world.

Two men entered the room through the other door and broke my train of thought. One was a short, squat, quick-motioned man with a heavy-featured, pallid face and a half-bald head. He had on tortoiseshell glasses, a wrinkled brown suit, and talked in a brisk, rapid voice, slurring his words. He took the seat behind the desk, motioned the other man to be seated, looked over at me, and asked the jailer, ‘Is this the boy?’ all at the same time.

The other man was big, grey-haired, athletic-looking, more deliberate in his motions. He was poised, immaculate in an expensive-looking grey flannel suit, with a thoughtful, serious expression on his face. He lowered himself carefully in the chair beside the desk, crossed his legs, and studied me.

‘Yes, Your Honour, Robert Jones,’ the jailer replied to the squat man behind the desk, taking hold of my arm at the same time.

‘You needn’t hold him,’ the judge snapped. ‘He’s not going to bite us.’

The jailer let go my arm, stood away from me again.

The judge said, ‘The president of Atlas Corporation, Mr. Houghton here, has interceded in your behalf, Jones. He has come down here expressly to talk to you.’ His rapid, casual voice got sharp. ‘I want you to listen to him.’

The first time I tried my voice wouldn’t come at all, then I tried again and lisped, ‘Yes sir,’ in no more than a whisper.

Mr. Houghton cleared his throat and got on a look of deep concern. ‘I talked with Mrs. Perkins last evening and again this morning,’ he began. ‘She is a tolerant and intelligent woman, I am happy to say, capable of weighing personal vengeance against national good. She realizes that, should she press charges against you, it might in all likelihood create racial tension among the employees and seriously handicap our production schedule, so she has consented to withdraw her charge against you, and Judge Morgan has informed me that this is permissible.’ He had a cultured, scholarly voice, authoritative but unemotional. ‘It is a patriotic gesture comparable only to the heroism of men in battle, and I have the highest admiration for her.’

I knew right off what had happened; they’d grilled Madge and learned the truth, or learned enough to guess at the rest. His conscience bothered him too much for him to let me take a strictly bum rap, but he’d never come right out and say it; he’d cover for her till hell froze over and make himself believe that he was doing it for the best. But I didn’t care how he played it— I was beat.

‘I genuinely regret that circumstances permit you to escape punishment,’ he went on, ‘for you, more than any criminal, should be punished. You had no motive, not even an understandable excuse. Yours was a crime of uncontrolled lust—the act of an animal. And for it to be you, out of all other Negro employees at Atlas, to commit this crime is doubly disheartening, not only to the people of your race but to those of us who have always had the welfare of your people at heart.’ He paused and got out his I-trusted-you look. ‘You were given every opportunity to advance. You were the first Negro to be employed in a position of responsibility by our corporation and you were in a position to represent your race, to win for them advantages heretofore denied. You were selected because you were considered the highest type of Negro. We made you a leader of your people, such as Joe Louis, the prize fighter, Marian Anderson, the singer, and others. We had confidence in you. To do a thing like this, at a time when Negroes are making such rapid progress, when Negro soldiers are earning the respect of the nation, and when Negro workers are being employed in all branches of industry is more than a disgrace to yourseif, it is a betrayal of your people… .’

He was very, very smooth, but I wanted him to hurry and get it over with.

‘Mr. MacDougal and Mr. Kelly both tried very hard to make you a success on that job,’ he went on. ‘They wanted you to set an example for other Negro employees, to open the way for those with more than average skill. I, personally, am anxious that Negroes make a good record in industry, and it is indeed regrettable, I assure you, to learn that you are not to be trusted to work alongside white women employees.

‘That is all I have to say to you,’ he concluded, rising. ‘But I hope, seriously, that you will think about it.’

He had to say all that, I thought, just to cover up for a nogood cracker slut who just happened to be born white instead of black.

He turned to Judge Morgan. ‘Good morning, Your Honour, and thank you.’

‘Delighted,’ the judge mumbled, half rising.

Mr. Houghton went out.

‘And let that be a lesson,’ the judge said briskly, and began shuffling some papers on his desk he had brought in with him. ‘I see they want you in Los Angeles for carrying a concealed weapon,’ he remarked, then looked up at me. ‘Suppose I give you a break, boy. If I let you join the armed forces—any branch you want—will you give me your word you’ll stay away from white women and keep out of trouble?’

I wanted to just break out and laugh like the Marine in my dream, laugh and keep on laughing. ‘Cause all I ever wanted was just a little thing—just to be a man. But I kept a straight face, got the words through my oversized lips. ‘Yes sir, I promise.’

‘Good,’ he mumbled, standing up. ‘Don’t worry about that charge in Los Angeles.’ He shook his finger at me, said, ‘Make a good record, get an honourable discharge. It will do you a lot of good after this war.’ Then he spoke to the jailer. ‘Have somebody go along with this boy to the recruiting station.’

‘Yes, Your Honour,’ the jailer said, taking me by the arm again.

We went out, back through the corridors, kept through to the desk this time. ‘Judge Morgan wants to send somebody with this boy to the recruiting station,’ the jailer said to the sergeant on duty.

The sergeant didn’t even look at me; he called over to a cop by the door in a bored, indifferent voice, ‘Here’s another soldier.’

‘Come on, boy,’ the cop said.

The two Mexican youths he had with him grinned a welcome.

‘Let’s go, man, the war’s waiting,’ one of them cracked.

‘Don’t rush the man,’ the other one said. ‘The man’s not doing so well,’ and when I came closer he said, ‘Not doing well at all. Looks like this man has had a war. How you doing, man?’

They were both brown-skinned, about my colour, slender and slightly stooped, with Indian features and thick curly hair. Both wore bagged drapes that looked about to fall down from their waists, and greyish dirty T shirts. They talked in the melodious Mexican lilt.

‘I’m still here,’ I lisped painfully.

They fell in beside me and we went out and started up the hill toward the induction centre, the three of us abreast and the cop in the rear.

Two hours later I was in the Army.