Such Sweet Thunder (33 page)

After a while he saw a broad field of flickering lights in the distance. As the streetcar grew closer he could make out a row of huge signboards on either side of the field of lights, east and west, and on the far side of the field, south, all lit up, while straight ahead lay a broad sweeping hill that looked like a huge mound of snow swelling up from the street. At the top of the hill there was a group of squarish stone buildings that shone coldly white, monumental, against the blackness of the sky. From the court, fronted by a huge stone wall, stood a white stone column, at the top of which burned an enormous flame. It looks like a g-r-e-a-t big candle! he thought excitedly, his eye sweeping down to the foot of the great wall that shone like a sheet of frosty ice. He took in the splendor of the row of fountains at the wall’s base. Their powerful sprays, caught in the beams of the concealed floodlights, appeared like towering white feathers wavering in the snow-filled sky!

“Looka there!” he shouted.

“Ain’t you never seen Memor’al Hill, niggah?” Turner said.

Tommy hit him hard in the ribs with his fist.

“What’s the matter with you, man!” Turner exclaimed.

“That’s for sayin’
niggah
in front a white folks!” he whispered.

Turner bowed his head sheepishly, while Amerigo looked at Tommy with an expression of admiration.

“Union Station!” cried the conductor. He gazed down upon the great network of train tracks glistening with snow and spangled with constellations of red, yellow, green, and white signal lights. The tracks nearest the station were sheltered by long narrow sheds that gave onto the magnificent main building, which was of stone with a high vaulted ceiling.

The streetcar came to a halt. Men and women carrying bags stepped down from the car and headed for one of the great entrances and the long line of yellow taxis parked in front.

That’s where T. C. works, he thought, and the bell clanged three times, and the streetcar moved away from the station. The streets grew quieter, the houses larger, surrounded by large spacious gardens and tall bushes.

Presently the streetcar stopped.

“End of the line,” said the conductor, and they stirred themselves and stepped down. They were greeted by cold gusts of air that rushed up their coattails and disturbed the warmth left over from the streetcar.

Tommy and Turner took the lead until they came to a little square where they stopped and gazed at the beautiful prospect before them. To the south, on a hill beyond the lovely boulevard, stood four large apartment buildings in a row. Above the roof of the middle building he spelled out the letters
B-I-A-R-R-I-T-Z
in red neon light that stood out against the blue-black snow-filled sky. His eyes swept downward to the boulevard where the bushes and small evergreen trees stood covered with snow, and finally came to rest at the spot where they stood, before the square bordered by a dazzling array of beautiful stores of all kinds, the lights in their windows all shining at once!

“The stores look like — like — palaces or somethin’,”
he heard Rutherford say, and he smiled with satisfaction because it was true. The scene caused him to think of the fairy tales that he listened to on the radio every Saturday.

He followed his companions silently, dumbly taking in all the finery in the store windows. It looks a lot better than the pictures in the
Star
, he thought, pressing his nose against the windows of the candy stores, and of the food stores, where everything looked so good, so unbelievably good — too good to eat! — as Rutherford had said.

The snow fell silently and swelled into mounds around the evergreen trees that stood in the center of the square. They glistened with tiny blue lights.

“It is a Sanie Claus,” whispered the voices, seeping up through the snow from the trunks of the trees. Anxiously he looked at Tommy, who was standing in front of a little store that looked like a chapel. Its facade was covered with porcelain shingles, and two bronze urns stood on either side of the alcove through which one entered the store. A tiny bell in its miniature tower rang the hour:

“It is a Sanie Claus!” it said: “…  it is … it is …”

They moved on now, gazing at other wonders of the Plaza with reverence and with awe.

They were walking east. The beautiful square was far behind. They were now surrounded by large roomy houses with long generous porches.

“That’s the one I want!” Amerigo cried suddenly, pointing to a bungalow with a deeply slanting roof and coffee-brown shingles.

“I’ll take that one!” Turner said, pointing to a big stone house behind a tall iron gate.

“You couldn’t even pay the rent money!” said Tommy.

“Aw — I kin say what I like if I wanna, man!”

“It sure is pretty!” said Eddie. “Must have twenty rooms!”

A million of them! he thought, seeing a big fireplace in every room — big enough to slide down easily!

Now they were walking west. They came to a broad shallow staircase with an expansive walk on either side of a long grassy island now covered with snow. The paths extended almost a block to another staircase that gave onto a grand stone porch supported by six great marble columns. On either side of this main stair were two moderately sized lawns enclosed by stone balustrades, beyond which were various kinds of trees and bushes whose branches now bent earthward under the weight of the ever-falling snow.

A mellow amber light glowed from a huge bronze urn hanging from the ceiling. It tinted the snow and illuminated the porch and threw the building’s facade into a peaceful and yet stately relief.

They walked quietly onto the porch and peered at the great bronze doors. Suddenly the sound of crunching snow broke the churchlike silence as they walked. A flashlight flickered from the garden neighboring the lawn to the east.

“Look! A ghost!” Eddie cried.

“Aw-aw!” said Carl.

“Ssssh!” Tommy whispered, poking him in the ribs and beckoning him and the others to follow him. They stole off the porch and ran
down the path as fast as they could. When they reached the street and could finally breathe again Amerigo declared:

“M-a-n — that house sure was haunted!”

“Aw, man, that’s a museum!” said Tommy.

“Hee hee! You don’ know nothin’, man!” Turner jeered. “That’s where they keep pictures a dead people an’ bones an’ things from the Greeks an’ stuff like that.”

“Yeah!” said Tommy, “an’ a place where you keep pictures is a a-r-t museum, dumbbell!”

He took another look at the stately building.

“I take it back,” he mumbled to himself. “
That’s
the house
I
want!”

“What?” Eddie asked.

“Nothin’,” he said, thinking, that’s the prettiest house in the whole world! Moving away with the others, he stared back at the great porch. The peace and serenity of its columns and of its facade filled him with strangely familiar emotions that were both curious and comforting. For an instant a subtle fear accompanied by the dizzying sensation of whirling through cool bright regions of space came over him. A long low growl rose up from the pit of his stomach. Gradually the fear subsided, leaving only a feeling of wonder egged on by his curiosity to know exactly what was in the building. But then his stomach growled again, and his curiosity gave way to a sensation of hunger, and then he became aware of the pains that shot through his feet as he trampled along the cold wet pavement, through cozy lanes and winding alleys lined with beautiful houses nestling behind snow-covered gardens. Only now he no longer looked at the houses, only at the soft warm light behind the curtained windows. He longed for his bed and sleep.

They had lost their way. Turner wanted to go “thataway!” pointing to a little winding lane to the left, and Tommy wanted to go “thataway —” pointing to a little winding lane on the right.

“Come on, ’Mer’go,” said Tommy, and they trudged on alone. Turner, Carl, and Eddie went the other way. Finally he and Tommy came to the square. All was silent, except for the falling snow. The bell in the tower of the store that looked like a chapel toned eleven.

They stood huddled together in the shelter and waited for the streetcar. An automobile stopped at the corner, and three pale, dry, curious faces stared out at them from behind snow-splashed windows, and then moved away, out of sight.

Gradually now the snow turned to freezing rain. The snow that lay
on the ground was transformed into a dirty gray slush flowing in shimmering streams through the gutters and down the drains.

The sky was black, and the trees stood naked and wet under the lamplight. Glimmering droplets of water undulated along the undersides of their branches and fell slowly, heavily, rhythmically:
Boom! Boom! Boom!
against the gray gauzelike curtain of driving rain.

Clang! clang! clang!
The streetcar rumbled up in front of their shelter and turned around to the far side and waited for the time to depart. He took his seat beside Tommy. They huddled together in the middle of the car and gladdened to the hot currents of air that steamed up through their wet clothes.

The conductor stamped on the bell and the streetcar moved away from the shelter. He watched their swaying images, shot through by pellets of rain sliding down the windowpane, as the car picked up speed.

“Look!” cried Tommy, looking out the window on the opposite side.

“Where?”

“Don’t you see ’em cats?”

“Aw yeah!” Turner, Carl, and Eddie stood in the middle of the track about fifty yards from the shelter, waving their arms.

“Tell ’im to stop!”

“Aw, it’s too late now,” said Tommy. “I told ’um it was thataway ’steada thataway!” The streetcar swerved around a little bend and Turner, Carl, and Eddie were out of sight.

“Boy! Do you know what time it is?” Rutherford cried when he entered the house. He sat on the edge of the bed, snuffing out a cigarette, while Viola slept peacefully within the rosy aura of the bed lamp.

“No, sir.”

“It’s damned near
twelve o’clock!
Didn’t you have sense enough to come in out a the rain? There’s somethin’ to eat in the kitchen, but git them wet clothes off first.”

Viola stirred restlessly, rolled away from the light, and faced the wall. Rutherford helped him take his clothes off, warmed his pajamas before the fire, and helped him put them on. They went into the kitchen. There was a ham sandwich on top of the oven and a glass of milk and a piece of chocolate cake on the table.

“How did you like it? Did you see all the pretty trees an’ stores an’ things?”

“Yessir.”

“Anybody say anything to you!”

“Nosir.”

He crammed the last of the sandwich into his mouth and started in on the cake, taking greedy swigs of milk between bites. His eyes were so heavy that he could hardly keep them open.

When he had finished they went to the front of the house. Rutherford got in bed and put out the light.

“Good night,” he said.

“G’night.”

“Don’t forget to turn off the stove, you hear?”

No answer.

“Amerigo?”

“Yessir.”

He stared at the light issuing from the stove. It cast a mysterious glow over the room. The little laced fire-brick columns through which the flames jutted were taller than they had ever been before. They grew taller and taller. He followed them up to the ceiling to where the urn filled with amber light hung down. Down … down … his gaze drifted with the huge flakes of snow, falling through the soft aura of amber light. He heard his shoes crunching the soft snow that fringed the edge of the great porch. Then there was a flicker of light:

“Amerigo? You ’sleep?”

“No, sir.”

“Turn out the light an’ go to sleep, then.”

He turned out the light, and then the stove. The color faded from the columns. The room grew dark. He climbed sluggishly into bed. As he settled himself under the covers he heaved a deep sigh. Then he turned and expectantly faced the window, but it was only filled with cold gray night light. He listened to the rain beating on the roof and on the pavement. His eyelids closed under the weight of the beating rain.

“No luck,” said Rutherford bitterly, as he entered the kitchen the following evening. Viola was dipping the big spoon into the pot of chine-bones and beans.

The telephone rang.

“I’ll git it,” said Rutherford: “Hello? Hello? Unh!” He hung up and returned to the kitchen. “I wonder who that is? That’s the third time this week that damned phone’s rung an’ they hung up!”

“Wash your hands, Amerigo,” said Viola in a controlled but casual voice, placing the bowl of chine-bones and beans, the plate of steaming
corn bread, the pitcher of buttermilk, and a saucer of chopped raw onions on the table. After he and Rutherford had washed their hands they sat down to the table. Viola quietly scooped up some of the onions into her plate and then covered them with beans, taking the chine-bones in her fingers. She deftly pulled them apart, ferreted out the meat with her tongue, and sucked the juice from the bones. He copied her movements, while Rutherford thoughtfully sipped his buttermilk.

“I got sixty-two cents!” he said suddenly, breaking the nervous silence. “An’ I got some milk bottles comin’ from Miss McMahon, an’ Mrs. Fox promised me a dime Sad’dy for goin’ to the store for ’er, an’ Miss Sadie’s gonna give me a
dollar!
”

“That’s fine,” said Viola. “You gonna have a whole lot a money.”

The telephone rang. Rutherford’s body stiffened. Viola continued eating without looking up.

“You answer it this time. Maybe whoever it is’ll talk to
you
.”

Viola got up without a word and went to the phone.

“Aw, hi, girl! Sad’dy? Let me see … what time? I think that’ll be okay. Aw, so so. Naw! That’s too bad. Did she call a doctor? Honey — ever’body seems to be down in the mouth this Chris’mas! Thank the Lord we at least got our health! Now who you tellin’? Ain’ that the truth! I better knock on wood, though. Well, all right, girl, see you Sad’dy. Bye.

“It was Allie Mae,” said Viola with deliberate coldness, as she sat down to the table and continued eating without another word.