Such Sweet Thunder (16 page)

Her face was dirty, like it was made from mud. Fine wrinkles radiated from the corners of her black shining eyes and from the corners of her mouth and veined her neck.

“Good evening, friends!” she said with a gentle flurry of movement, displaying her long tattered dress, which dragged the ground. It was of a faded rose color and was caked with dirt and soiled with dark brown stains. Now and then she gathered her skirts in order to take a mincing step, revealing coquettishly another skirt of a faded green color of some shiny material trimmed with dirty white ruffles, and another still, bright red with a torn hem, and still another, this time a bright yellow one. She was shod in tightly laced shoes that extended several inches above her ankles. They were badly scuffed and torn at the seams.

“Good evening, friends!” she was saying sweetly, bowing deeply from the waist, blowing kisses from the tips of her long grimy fingers. She took a withered rose from her basket and tossed it up to Hazel Shields, who tossed it back into the alley with a mocking laugh. Aunt Tish watched it fall. It landed near Mr. Pete’s foot. His companion stooped to pick it up, but before he could do so, Mr. Pete kicked it into the middle of the alley.

“Oh! Poor dear!” cried Aunt Tish, wringing her hands distractedly, “you’ve lost your mother! You’ve fallen from your nest, precious, precious, precious. Lost? Lost! Are you lost? Lost! Lost!”

Her words echoed up and down the alley. The whizzing cars at either end of the alley seemed to take up the cry:
Lost! Lost! Lost!

“Crazy as a bedbug!” said Miss Margret, and went into the house and slammed the door.

Mr. Pete tossed a small stone at Gloomy Gus, but he was watching Aunt Tish so intently that he did not notice. Mr. Pete picked up another stone.

“Aw-aw!” said Rutherford. “Babe, you sit up here on the porch.” Viola moved without a word, pulling Amerigo with her.

“Come! Come my sweet!” said Aunt Tish tenderly to the flower, which she now cuddled in the palms of her hands. “Here you are, sir,”
turning to Gloomy Gus, who took it carefully. Then a look of fear came into her face. “No! No!” taking the rose from him. She smiled coquettishly: “I shall wear it in my hair!” sticking the flower between the wisps of dark brown hair that escaped from the edges of her hat. “Wheeee!” she threw her arms wildly above her head, causing her basket to slide off her arm and fall to the ground, scattering the withered flowers. There were carnations, roses, irises, and bruised apples, peaches, and oranges. They rolled over the cobblestones. “Come back, my children!” she cried, running after them. “Sweet dears!” gathering them tenderly and placing them carefully in the basket, which she now held in one hand while she gestured with the other, crying, “Pretty things for a pretty penny! Sweet ladies! Gallant gentlemen! Apples of my eyes, sweet honeyed hearts!”

Meanwhile Gloomy Gus stood a little to the rear and to the right of Aunt Tish, near the banister where Mr. Pete and his companion were sitting. He watched Aunt Tish intently, with love and admiration, as she offered her wares to the people on the porches. Now and then he would shake his head distractedly and shove his hands deeply into his pockets, looking warily about him, as though anticipating trouble.

“Sweet honeyed hearts!” Aunt Tish was saying. When suddenly Mr. Pete tossed a stone into the crown of Gloomy Gus’s hat. Feeling the stone, he jumped back in fright and looked wildly about him in order to discover what had happened. Mr. Pete began to laugh. The alley was deathly still. Mr. Pete looked up on the porch where Miss Hazel was sitting and picked up another stone. She looked down at her feet and smiled no more.

“Let’s see you do that step agin, Gloomy!” Mr. Pete yelled, smiling at Miss Hazel. His companion whispered something to him. Mr. Pete shook his head. “C’mon, Gloomy, do it agin!” He threw the stone at his feet. He jumped back as before. Then he held up the palm of his right hand, as a sign for Mr. Pete to leave him alone, wildly shaking his head all the while, muttering unintelligible words to himself. He closed his eyes and began to tremble.

“Aw-aw!” Rutherford muttered under his breath.

“Give the nice man an apple, dear,” said Aunt Tish. He gazed at her for an instant with a dazed expression, trying to make her realize what was happening, but at the same time struggling to fulfill her request. While still in the throes of his dilemma, Mr. Pete slipped up behind him and pulled the tail of his coat.

A murmur swept through the alley.

“Oh Lawdy!” cried Mrs. Derby.

“Rutherford, let’s go upstairs!” whispered Viola. Rutherford did not move.

Suddenly, before Mr. Pete knew it, Gloomy Gus had wheeled around, dipping into his right coat pocket and coming out with a big sandstone. He cocked his right leg in the air like a baseball player and threw it with all his might at Mr. Pete, who was just gaining his chair. He looked up with an innocent grin just in time to see the stone coming. His friend jumped aside and the stone crashed against the leg of Mr. Pete’s chair and sent him sprawling into the alley.

A sudden burst of hilarious laughter filled the air. His companion laughingly helped him up off the ground. Mr. Pete looked down and saw that his shirt was dirty and torn at the sleeve. His face became very red and his eyes looked as though they would bulge out of his head. He looked angrily at Miss Hazel, who was laughing at him. Miss Margret came out on the porch and sat down beside Miss Hazel and laughed at him, too.

Mr. Pete, in a rage, rushed blindly toward Gloomy Gus, who stood with his back to him, staring dumbly at all the laughing people. Tears stood in his eyes. Aunt Tish greeted this outburst of laughter as though it were an ovation. She threw more and more kisses at them and proffered her rotting fruit.

“You old son of a bitch!” Mr. Pete yelled, and slapped Gloomy Gus, who because his back was still turned did not know who had hit him. His hat flew in the air and landed on the ground a few feet away.

“Pick up that God damned hat!”
said a voice. It was Big Tom Johnson, standing on top of Mr. Pete. His eyes flashed angrily and the veins stood out on his neck. Mr. Pete looked up at Big Tom with surprise. His face grew white. He looked down at Gloomy Gus’s hat, then he looked again at Tom, and from Tom to his companion. He returned his gaze without saying a word. Suddenly Mr. Pete cried out, “Git the nigger!” to his friend, and swung wildly at Tom. Tom stepped quickly aside, and crashed his huge right fist against the side of Mr. Pete’s head and, before he could fall, jolted him with a staggering left to the midsection. Mr. Pete crumpled heavily to the ground where he lay, doubled in two, holding his belly. Then Tom faced his companion, but he did not move.

“He-he-he-heee’s scaired as-a as-a as-a jjjack-rabbit!” cried Unc.

“Naw he ain’,” Rutherford replied, “he’s just got good sense, that’s all.”

Tom turned and walked up the alley toward his house.

“Don’ go to bed tanight, nigger!” cried Mr. Pete, staggering to his feet. Tom turned slowly, deliberately, and said:

“I ain’ intendin’ to go to sleep tanight. I’m gonna be settin’ right up there — on my porch. Now you take me for a ride!”

When he reached his porch Miss Myrt ran down the steps and said something to him that no one else could hear. He brushed her recklessly aside and stalked into the house. Gertrude, his wife, rushed in after him. After a few minutes Tom appeared on the porch with two shotguns and a pistol. He was wearing a jumper. He withdrew a box of shells from his pocket and sat down on the steps and started loading his guns.

“Tommy! William! Lemuel! Git to bed — all a you. You, too, Dorothy!” The children all went into the house.

By now Gloomy Gus and Aunt Tish were at the bottom of the alley. Only her voice could be heard. “Pretty things for a pretty penny! Sweet ladies! Gallant gentlemen!” All the people stole quietly into their houses.

“Let’s git upstairs,” said Rutherford.

“
I
aaain’ ain’ gggoin’ no-wh-wh-wheres!” Unc stammered. “Th-th-th-this is my-
my
porch an’-an’-an’ I’m gonna-gonna set on it or bbbe damned!”

“Shoot yourself!” said Rutherford with a grin. “G’night, Mrs. Derby.”

“G’night, Mister Rutherford, Mrs. Jones, Tony,” said Mrs. Derby. “Hope Mister Derby don’ have no trouble gittin’ home. That man would be gone when somethin’ like this happens.”

“Go to bed, Amerigo,” said Rutherford curtly as soon as they were in the house. “You, too,” turning to Viola.

“What
you
gonna do?” she asked, breathing rapidly.

“Mind your own business.” He went into the middle room, opened the bottom drawer of the vanity dresser, and withdrew a small twenty-two revolver. He broke it down and spun the chambers around.

“My brother was shot to
death
with that gun!” cried Viola, “an’ for nothin’!”

“What’s that gotta do with me?”

“What kin you do with that, that,
bean shooter!
Against
machine guns
, Rutherford?”

“Go to bed!” He shut the door so that the child couldn’t hear, and he took this opportunity to go to the window and peep down into the
alley. All was quiet. The alley was darker now and the street lamp shone brightly. He tried to catch a glimpse of Tom Johnson sitting on his porch, but the glare of the light was too bright.

Suddenly, mysteriously, he heard the crickets singing again. He wondered if they had been singing all the while and he hadn’t heard them. And while he wondered, he suddenly realized that he heard them no more:

“Tom,” said Miss Myrt from the window upstairs.

Silence.

“Tom?”

“What?”

“I’m your momma.
Listen
to me.”

“Git back out a that window, damnit!”

“You don’ tell
me
what to do, boy! I raised you! An’ I’m gonna sit in this window just as long as you set on those steps!”

“Well, you’ll just git your damned fool head blowed off if you do ’cause I ain’ goin’
no
where.”

Silence.

The crickets began to sing. He got in bed and closed his eyes and listened. He felt something crawling over his chest. He slapped at it with the palm of his hand. Sweat!

Boom! Boom! Boom!
His heart pounded quietly. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. He gazed above the shade of the ringed lamplight.

“Tom?”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
One-two-three-four stars … five-six-seven-eight … the sky’s full of stars!

Half asleep.

A car sped down the alley. A storm! Glass shattering, empty cans flying noisily over the cobblestones. A whining shriek from the avenue!

He opened his eyes. The storm was silent. He looked at the sky. The stars were still there!

Sparrow-twitter! He sat up in bed with a start. He pulled on his pants and tipped into the middle room. Viola lay sleeping — alone.

“He’s
gone!
MOM! He’s gone!”

Viola jumped up in bed.

“What time is it?”

He held up the clock before her face. She lay back in the bed and turned to the wall. “Go to bed, boy!”

“He’s GONE!”

“Who’s gone? What are you —” She felt the empty space beside her. “RUTHERFORD!” She bolted upright. “THE GUN!” She sprang out of bed and raced into the kitchen with Amerigo on her heels. She stopped in front of the screen door, placed her hands on her hips, and grinned: “There’s your father!”

Rutherford was sitting on the orange crate, asleep. The twenty-two revolver lay near his foot. Viola stepped out onto the porch and looked over toward Tom Johnson’s house. “Look! Ain’ that a sight!” pointing to Tom who sat sleeping on his steps and Miss Myrt sleeping in the window above. “If ol’ Pete was comin’ he coulda blowed ’um to kingdom come — an’ they wouldn’ a even knowed it!”

“Rutherford. Rutherford …” She tugged gently at his arm.

He started. “What! —What’s happenin’?” He yawned.

“Ain’ nothin’ happenin’ ’ceptin’ you catchin’ your death a cold out there on that cold porch! Come on in the house, boy!” He looked over at Tom Johnson. “If they was comin’, they’d a been here before now!”

He stood up, stretched himself, and rubbed his arms. Then he smiled a silly smile.

“An’ bring that pop gun with you!” said Viola over her shoulder.

He stood at the backyard gate fumbling in the shallow pocket of his green velvet breeches, waiting for his mother to come. Presently she appeared on the porch all dressed up in a Sunday dress, her hair freshly straightened and curled, the tiny mole on her chin darkened with the wetted tip of a lead pencil, perfumed, diamond rings glistening.

Sharp as a tack! he thought.

“You have to pee, Amerigo?” she asked, noticing that he was fumbling in his pocket.

“No’m.”

“What you got in your pocket?” She quickly descended the back steps and approached the gate, taking one last look in the little hand mirror she withdrew from her purse. He pulled out his glass star.

“Where’d you git that?”

“Mister Jake.”

She opened the gate and stood waiting for him to step into the shoot.

“That’s nice, but be careful you don’ cut yourself, those points look mighty sharp.”

“My, my! Don’ Tony look sweet!” cried Miss Sadie from the porch.

“Oh! Eh, hello, Miss Sadie. I woulda called you, Miss Sadie, but it sounded so quiet over there. I, I thought maybe you wasn’ up yet!”

“Aw, that’s all right. I just came out to say good-bye to my baby. Couldn’ let my boy go to school without seein’ ’im off!

“Here, honey!” to the child, “I got somethin’ for you.”

“You kin go git it,” said Viola.

He ran up on the porch and Miss Sadie handed him a big round silver coin.

“Thanks,” he said. Miss Sadie kissed him before he could turn away, and his face got all wet. She’s crying, he said to himself. Women! Tearing himself from her embrace and running down to his mother. She looked at the coin, which he held up for her inspection.

“Oh! That’s too much, Miss Sadie. A whole dollar, for a baby!”

“I ain’ no baby!”

“He’ll just lose it. Here. I’ll keep it for you,” Viola took the silver dollar and put it into her purse, giving him a nickel in return. Then she said to Miss Sadie, who was drying her eyes on the hem of her housecoat: “That’s
awfully
sweet of you, Miss Sadie. Much obliged.”