Sweet Song (32 page)

He sang louder as he headed to the Howard’s. He tried to remember what words he had made up, but suddenly wondered whether the job might be more difficult than he thought originally. After singing the same words a few times, the songs sounded a little less interesting to him.

The rest of the afternoon, as the day’s heat peaked and then began to wane, Bob worked with less concentration. He still packed grease and mounted the new wheels. He still managed to get the rocks and logs back where he’d found them. And he even thought to feed the carriage horses in the back of the horse shed.

By the time he finished, the sun had dropped into the treetops and the Lord’s sweet song into night carried his words with it. The beauty inspired Bob to make up a song about a woman’s beauty being like the sunset and fading from a man’s life at the end of his days. Perhaps the lonely feel to the song reflected how Bob felt about his new room in Carl’s house. Perhaps it was his pining about his mixed concerns over Jenny Finch. As Hugh had brought up, he might feel one way, but what might be practical – in the longer time period – stood opposite those feelings.

The longer and more deeply Bob sang, the more beautiful the evening crept into the Howard’s back yard, and the stronger Bob felt about Jenny. He imagined she had no suitors because her beauty intimidated everyone. He recalled how his body had reacted to her glare alone. As he cleaned up after his repair work, Bob’s song, the color of sunset, and his loneliness merged inside the remembered smoothness of Jenny Finch’s face, the flow of her body in motion.

Bob wiped his hands on a rag he found near the disorganized tools in the carriage house. Stepping from behind the carriage after a final admiration of his work, Bob was surprised by Jed Howard
bursting from the back door. Jed stood nearly six and a half feet tall, had bushy white hair and deep creases in his face and neck. Three duplicates of Jed followed him. The boys’ hair weren’t white, but brown and the creases were not so deep on any of them. But these three were Jed’s boys, long and lanky, stringy muscles in their arms and big feet stretching out to hold them upright.

“Fine job. Fine job, Mr.—”

“White,” Bob said. Holding out his hand, he said, “Bob White.”

“Like the birdy?” the oldest boy said. The other two laughed.

Bob nodded. “A cruel joke, but a true one,” he said.

Jed barely shook Bob’s hand before he began his inspection of the carriage. “Didn’t clean up very well, Mr. Bird Man.”

The younger boy laughed nervously and repeated his father’s words quietly. “Bird man,” became a refrain.

Bob followed Jed and bent to see where the man pointed. Dirt was caked on the boot-board and a smudge ran across the carriage side.

“These scratches need paint.” Jed forged ahead.

“Scratches here, too, Pa,” the oldest said.

Bob tried to note each scratch, but couldn’t be on all sides of the carriage at once. He resolved to look it over the next day. “You have paint?” he asked.

Jed shot up straight and peered at Bob as though he had spoken out of turn. “You should-a looked and picked it up all at once. Now you’ll waste time going’ to get it. Well, I won’t pay for wasted time, Bird Man. No sir. You pick the paint up on your way here tomorrow.”

The sun pitched into the sea of green setting a glow along the ridge of the mountains. The sky darkened. The back area where the newly repaired carriage sat shrouded in shadow was reduced to near darkness.

“I want this properly cleaned and properly repaired, every scratch, then polished by tomorrow eve.” His chin jutted toward Bob, an unloosed arrow. “I’ll inspect it then.”

“I think I can do that,” Bob said.

“Think? You don’t Mister and I’ll strap you like a nigger.”

Bob looked into the sky for a moment. The first stars pushed through. The anger he felt rise in his chest and throat at the moment clashed against the serenity he was experiencing just before Jed split the clean air with his unclean words. Bob’s teeth clenched and his ears rang. “Don’t think you’ll have the chance to strap me,” Bob said, still looking into the night sky.

“I better not.”

“’Cause I won’t be here tomorrow,” Bob said.

“You young, cocky son-of-a-bitch. You’re too damned much a pussy or you’d be workin’ at the mill like the other men. All except for war gimps and I’ll have none of them at my mill.” Jed slapped Bob across the head. “You take the work you can do, or I’ll make sure nobody give you work.”

Bob turned suddenly. His eyes bulged.

Maybe Jed thought he’d gone crazy. Maybe he thought Bob had just had enough. Either way, he stepped back and back, and his boys followed him.

Bob felt anger as he had never felt it before, head-splitting, jaw-clenching anger. Before speaking, he spit at Jed’s feet. “You don’t slap a man unless you’re ready to kill him, Mister. You don’t ridicule a job until you’re man enough to do it yourself.” Bob took a step and Jed leaned backward. For a big, rich mill owner, Bob thought, Jed’s power was only in his mouth. “And, when you address me, you’ll learn to use my name.” He would not get paid for his day’s work. He would not go back to that house. But he felt justified and relieved.

Jed nodded. Bob turned to leave around the side of the house. To his surprise, the youngest boy ran up as if to jump him. Bob heard the approach and whipped around and hit the boy in the ear. His heart fell. He had hit a white man. He could be killed on the spot if they knew his secret. The boy staggered backwards.

Before going to Carl’s, he decided to have a drink at the saloon. He hoped he’d see Hugh there and be able to tell his story and ask for advice. He wondered whether Jed Howard really had the power to keep him from getting work in town. Hugh might know. This was no time to visit with the Sisters of Rhythm. Perhaps another evening, or early tomorrow, he would go there.

The dense and muggy air pulled on his lungs. His bruises made walking uncomfortable, but only occasionally painful. It was a good thing Jed hadn’t hit him. Jed must be a sad and lonely man to feel that striking out at others would get them to work. Bob knew from childhood how a man could find ways to be lazy if he chose to. How planning made doing take longer. How one’s pace could slow, making a day’s work take two days to finish. How hiding often made work stop altogether. Bob was not proud of what’ he’d said to Jed, but he did hum a happy tune on his way to Jimmy Finch’s.

Hugh was at the bar and his mug stood brimming with foam.

“Just get here?” Bob said.

“Have one with me.”

“All right.”

Hugh motioned to the bartender and a beer mug slammed down in front of Bob. Foam spilled over the edge onto the smooth mahogany surface of the bar.

Bob paid, placing his money in front of the mug, near the bartender, who scooped it up almost like magic.

“Had an interesting day,” Bob said.

“Tell me.” Hugh turned to listen.

Eventually, Hugh laughed both when Bob told him about Fist and when he told him about Jed. Hugh then said, “They don’t know who they fuckin’ with.”

Bob liked the sound of that: as though he were a man of some means. “And what do you think about the songs?”

“Ain’t no money in it. So, why do it?” Hugh said.

“But people would be listening to my words. They’d hear what I had to say.”

Hugh smiled at his beer. He shook his head. “You know, maybe you’re right. For someone who seldom had a voice, even when I met you just months ago, you’re finding it. Others should hear it to.”

Bob laughed. “Yeah.” He drank down his beer and ordered two more. Sisters of Rhythm were just stepping onto the stage.

T
he room did not smell of piss. The bed felt comfortable to lie in. Carl’s family remained quiet much of the time. And the house felt safe and secure, unlike many of the inns and boarding Houses and barracks Bob had slept in. Still, he slept fitfully.

He didn’t belong there. The family didn’t want him. He had displaced the sons. And, it was temporary. Carl would heal enough to start work again, this time in a different job, but he’d do it. And the mill owner wouldn’t care as long as the work got done. Carl might even be better off in the long run. Regardless what happened next for Carl, Bob would not be wanted there.

By morning, Bob hadn’t slept more than a few intermittent hours. He rolled out of bed, placing his feet on the bare planks, already warm. The day would be hot. Sweat slipped down from his armpit and beaded along his hairline and above his lip.

He had to go to the bathroom and get something to eat. The beer had made his mouth dry.

He shuffled around the room in the half-light. He had read the night before. The candle scent still hung in the room. The tart scent of Carl’s sons had been replaced in one night.

Money was stashed inside his book. He kept the rest in his pockets. Thanks to his discriminate spending habits, he didn’t need to worry about getting work for a few weeks, especially if he emptied his bank account.

He slipped on his pants and shirt and stood to go. He opened the door slowly and noticed that it didn’t creek. After closing the door behind him, Bob walked down the hall and went out the front. He felt freed. He ran his fingers through his short hair. He took in the
humid morning air. Mosquitoes already pestered him. He itched an old bite and slapped at a mosquito that landed on his arm. Blood dot. He wiped it on his pant leg.

The smell of bacon and eggs rested on the dead air, slight, but noticeable. He wondered whether the odor came from Carl’s kitchen at the end of the hall, wafting outside through an open window instead of traveling through the blocked hallway. As he ambled down Campbell Street, the scent got stronger. Carl and his family were still asleep.

Bob ran into people heading toward town or one of the mills. Many said ‘morning’, others didn’t. One man asked whether he’d quit working for Jasper and Bob ran through a quick explanation, while the two of them continued to walk.

Bob stopped in at the Park Avenue Eatery and took a seat. A middle-aged woman yelled from the door to the kitchen asking what he wanted. Several men turned to look at Bob as he answered, “Eggs, bacon, coffee.” The rest of the clientele didn’t look up, stop talking, or acknowledge the woman hollering from the back of the place.

Seven tables sat inside the small space. Bob could hear every conversation in there had he wished to listen. Instead he thought to himself, wandering through every possibility for his day. When he decided, he ate quickly, drank down his coffee, and stepped back out into the street, leaving his money on the table.

His heart pounded. His ears rang. Like when he talked back to Jed Howard and then punched his son, Bob’s adrenaline took over.

By the time he reached the saloon, sweat dripped down his face and arms. He didn’t know what he’d say, but stepped up to the door in the back and hit it hard with his fist. The wait was endless.

Jenny answered. “Oh my.”

Bob knew why she said that. Her face blushed and she placed her hand over her mouth.

“Sweet Jenny,” Mary said from behind her. “Why I would never a guessed it.”

Jenny turned toward Mary who looked at Bob and said, “Why, you got the same look on you.”

Mary put her arm around Jenny lovingly. Bob had never seen one woman do to another, let alone a Negro woman and a white
woman. “Now I got no idea why you come,” she said. “You wishin’ to see me an’ my sisters or just Jenny here?”

Bob stuttered and couldn’t seem to get the words out. The room lighted up behind Jenny. The sun touched her hair gently.

“I get ‘im first,” Mary said.

Bob could tell that Jenny had no idea what was going on.

Mary hugged Jenny close to her, a little squeeze, and explained. “We meets this man on the street and he be singing what we never heard a-fore.” She lowered her voice. “He gonna write us a song or two.”

Jenny backed out of the doorway. “Well he’d better come in then.”

Bob brushed past them and stopped. He suddenly didn’t know where to go.

“We have a parlor,” Jenny said.

“A parlor? Well, we usually use the gamblin’ table in the back a the bar, but if’n you want us in the parlor dat’s fine too,” Mary said before leaving to round up the other women and John.

Jenny sat opposite Bob. She stared at her own feet. Her hands were folded in her lap.

Bob’s hands shook, and he thought he felt his lip twitch. He knew the dangers of what he was about to do, but couldn’t stop himself. “Can I come back later? Or can we meet somewhere?”

Jenny raised her face and looked into his eyes.

Bob’s whole body tensed. His memories of women were not pleasant, but this woman, this feeling, pulled at him differently. In a strained voice, he said, “I’d come to tell you one of those stories my feet knows.” He looked down at his stretched out legs and wiggled his feet.

Jenny laughed in a nervous way. “You most certainly can come by.”

Bob’s entire being took in her reply.

When the Sisters of Rhythm came into the room, Jenny stayed seated. No one seemed to care. Bob didn’t know what to expect or what to do, so he sat and waited for someone else to begin.