XVI
Tom Cole shifted his left leg from its cramped under position, replacing it over the right. He was careful not to let his heel scrape the shiny painted floor of the outer office of the Snell-Judson Real Estate and Development Company; white folks were particular about scratches. He had been waiting since eight-thirty for Mr. Judson to come in from the mountain; it was now after ten. It wasn't his fault if Mr. Judson was late. He hadn't done anything to deserve what Mr. Judson had said a week ago come next Friday, that waiting was the best thing he did.
He considered a patch once neatly covering the left knee with owlish deliberation. "My ole 'ooman's a powerful patcher," he told Peter, the gap watchman, when the mend was new. "Say she gonter patch mah britches wid shoe leather, she do."
That was a long time ago; the patch had bulged out on one side, and torn loose. He picked carefully at the frayed gap, widening it. Maybe Mr. Judson would notice it—it was about time he got that brown suit the boss wore around the garden in the morning.
He brought his mind back with an effort to what he had come for. He went over the figures again, painfully printed on the back of an envelope picked from the kitchen trash-basket. He rehearsed carefully what he would have to say. It wouldn't be hard to get that thirty-five dollars. Maybe he ought to ask for forty, or forty-five; that would leave something for himself and Stella.
He'd have to try, some day, to get more out of Miss' Mary for the First Zion Church. The organ money was overdue; and there was a second-hand red carpet at Geohegan's that would just fit the Sunday School room.
He snorted aloud, to the amazement of the stenographer busily at work in the corner. Shaking her head, she returned to her machine.... That Scales Green and the 'coon dog he wanted to sell, at church last Sunday! Wanted two dollars for an old yellow pup that looked like he'd only chase cows. Probably picked him up; the dog ought to be in the pound. Maybe he stole him. That was a nice 'coon dog that storekeeper Carr had; there was one just like him running around the Ellis Dairy below the Thirty-Eighth Street road. If he caught that dog roaming around Mr. Judson's place, he'd show them! Anyhow, Pup and Whitey were good 'cooners, he didn't need any more. You had to feed dogs somehow.
He mustn't forget about the cow-feed, or the saddle.
Paul Judson walked briskly in, an aster blue-purple against the soft gray lapel. "Hello, Tom, you here? I thought you were to prune those forsythias this morning."
"Miss' Mary done tole me to go by Dexter's an' have de side-saddle fixed, suh. One of de sturrup strops is broke. Ah had to come in for cow-feed an' oats."
"Get an order from Miss Simpson for the feed. And drive by the Union Depot on your way out; there's a box of fruit trees to set out on the hill across the gap."
He passed into the inside offices.
When he crossed over to the title room, half an hour later, Tom still sat in the same place, the top rim of the folded order showing neatly above the sweat-band in the cap on the negro's lap. "Still here?"
Tom rose awkwardly, puffing out his lips in uncertainty. "There wuz sump'n else Ah wanted to see you 'bout, suh."
"Well?"
"Ah wanted to ax a favor, Mr. Judson."
"What is it?"
"Ah wondered ef you could spare me a loan, suh? Make an edvance?"
"What do you want it for?"
The crumpled cap fell to the floor; Tom stooped and picked it up. "We done decided to sen' Diana to de Tuskegee school, suh. You got some of mah money; an' Ah's been savin' till Ah's got thuhteen dollars. She kin wu'k out in Tuskegee, an' make mos' of her 'spenses. She's goin' to take millinery."
"How much do you need?"
"Thuhty-five dollars, suh. Dat's for de fu'st year. She'll hatter go two years."
Paul considered the matter; a sigh of irritation escaped him. Higher education for negroes might be a good thing, in some cases; it was usually a waste of time. There was something wrong with the idea of it; a serving class ought, naturally, to remain uneducated. Education had a tendency to stir up unrest. Negroes who knew too much might seem respectful, but there was a suspicious glibness about them that warned that they had acquired something which, if it became formidable or wide-spread, might question the social framework on which Adamsville and the South were built. Still, Diana seemed a hard-working girl; it might do no harm.
"All right. Whenever she's ready to go, you can have the money."
"Thank you so kin'ly, suh. Ah'll pay back every cent——"
"Don't forget those fruit trees, Tom."
While Diana was finishing her first year, Tom's prosperity became too much for him. He had kept his eyes on the plump Wyandotte pullets at the Ellis Dairy, the same place that had lost a prized possum dog six months before. There was an eight-foot fence, with two feet of barbed wire at the top; and he knew that the Ellis boys had guns, and used them. But the chicken runs were behind the cow barns, and thus hidden from the house; and he had discovered an opening under the rear of the fence, where a mere trickle remained of the roystering April freshet. This gap was protected only by stakes angled inward from within the fence; and the moist ground allowed the central three to be worked up with ease.
He chose a May night, moonless and peaceful. It was almost one o'clock when he made his wet way under the fence, and followed the chicken-wire to the roosts. His fumbling fingers found the staple which held the lock chain. He pulled his hammer out of one of the "croker sacks," inserted the claw and pulled. It was hard in starting, then came easily; only the last pull resulted in a subdued and nerve-wracking screech as the metal curved out of the hard wood. He let the heated staple down quietly, and opened the door. The hens kept up a sleepy clutter; now was the time to use all his skill and tact.
He moved his hand from the wall along the pole, until it collided with the first warm feathers. His mind wandered to a memory of a night when he had seen an owl steal one of Mr. Judson's prized game hens. The thief had settled on a tree limb occupied by the hen, and gradually commenced shoving. The hen sleepily gave way. As she came to the end of the lopped-off limb, she had fallen, and the bird of prey had caught her before she reached the ground. Then Tom had fired.... Good thing nobody was watching him!
There was a smothered gurgle as his fingers closed around the neck. Deftly he twisted the head until the bones gave, then slipped it into the bag. Another, and another—the fowls had increased their drowsy disturbance, but were not yet alarmed.
He got two more, then decided that he had enough. No need to be a hog about it.
He started back for the door; his knee hit a feeding trough with a sudden crack. The noise was not great; but at the same moment a voice rang out, "Come out, nigger, I've got the door covered. Come out, or I'll shoot hell out of you."
Lordie, lordie! No use lying low; there was no other door to the henhouse, and if he waited until morning, he was caught sure.
"All right, suh, Ah's comin'."
He slid open the door a trifle; the light of a lantern lit on the ground cut its way in. "No tricks, now. Drop whatever you've got, and come out with your hands in the air—or I'll blow your head off."
"Ah ain't doin' no tricks, boss. Doan' shoot, for de Lawd's sake!"
"Come on, or——" came another voice.
He slid fearfully out, his arms raised. He stood blinking in the sudden shine.
From his left two figures closed in, shotguns half raised. "Just one old nigger, Ned; we'll phone the constable and turn him over."
"Lawdie, lawdie! Doan' give me to no constable; Ah ain't done nuthin!"
"How many chickens did you get, you black——"
Tom spoke volubly. "Ah thought dis was Mr. Joneses' roos', cap'n, an' he said Ah could come in some night an'——"
"Why, I know that nigger. Didn't you bring in Mr. Judson's Jersey last month for service?"
"Yessuh, dat Ah did. Ah's a minister of de gospel, an' ef Ah's made a little mistake to-night, Ah'll swear ter Gawd never to——"
"Bring him along."
"Lawd, boss, doan' send me to jail. Dey'll give me five years. Let me go dis time.... Ah won't never——"
"Come on——"
"Ah's a minister of de gospel, suh, an' ef Ah's arrested, what will mah flock think? Ef you lets me go——"
"How many hens did you get?"
'Fo', suh; fo' or five."
"I'll give you four or five seconds to get out of here. And you leave Adamsville, do you hear me? We know you. We're too busy to waste time around the criminal court. But I warn you, get out! If I catch you around this town again, I'll have Judge Hawkes send you up for ten years. Git!"
"De Lawd will reward you, suh, for——"
He raised the shotgun suggestively. "Three seconds left. Git!"
Minus cap and bags, Tom "got"—stumbling into the brook ditch on his face, then hurrying up the stream, and running blindly through the woods to the road, and so to the mountain. He sat down at last on the crest, a stitch wracking his side.
What chance did he have, with the Ellis boys after him with shotguns? Maybe he could lie low for a while; keep on the mountain, until the shotguns' energetic memories had turned to other things. He shuffled along the outcrop, then turned in to avoid the cactus that punctuated the hillock before Locust Hedge.
Mammy Stella was waiting for him. "Get them hens?"
"Ah got hell, Stella. Ah gotter clear out er Adamsville; dem Ellis boys done said so."
"Whar you gwine?" Her marital suspicion strengthened his resolve; a holiday from home had its advantages.
"Ah 'lowed Ah'd walk down ter Hazelton 'r Coalstock. Ah could get somethin' to do 'roun' de rollin' mill."
"What de chu'ch gonter do?"
"Brudder Adams he kin preachify tell Ah comes back."
"Why 'n' cher stay here?"
"An' git shot?"
She dismissed him, in the limp dawn, with wifely solicitude. "Don' cher be up to no tricks, Tom, or Ah 'low Ah'll pull all yer wool out when Ah git hol' of you."
"You'll see me when you see me, ole' 'ooman." And he was gone.
One warm morning in the April following, the Judsons' watchman and man-of-all-work, Peter, hesitated before his mistress, a barrow of uprooted poison-ivy poised in the grip of sturdy old hands, which were immune from the noxious irritation. "Ah done got a letter f'um Tom Cole, Miss' Mary."
"Where is he?"
"He's dead."
"You got a letter from him?"
"No'm; it was f'um de man he wu'ked for, in Coalstock. Died Chuesday las' week, de letter said. Dey buried him. Ah done tol' Stella."
"That's too bad, Peter. I'll have to speak to Stella." Her heart went out to the black woman, who had lost her husband; what if it had been Paul! She determined to turn over to the widow an old black silk that she had noticed the wrinkled eyes coveting.
The gift was lavishly appreciated.
"Thank 'ee, thank 'ee, Miss' Mary. Ah'm gwineter fix it up wid puhple—it'll make a gran' mo'nin' dress!"
"You didn't go to the funeral?"
"Ah ain't got no time to waste on no funerals, Miss' Mary, 'less dey's closer'n Coalstock."
Jim, the second boy, joined Ed in work upon the mountain; Will and Babe continued at school, although Stella grumbled about a sixteen-year-old negro bothering with books, when a job was handy.
Diana arrived home the last of May. The whole family surrounded her admiringly, as she hung the framed diploma on the sitting-room wall.
"Hit's beautiful," Stella said simply, as the daughter pointed out the school buildings in the half-tone oval in the center.
There was no opening, however, for a negro milliner in Adamsville. Tired with the futile search for work prepared for by her education, she replaced Stella in the Judson kitchen, to allow the elder woman the greater freedom which "washin'" permitted. With the coming of the clearing gangs, Will joined his two brothers at the work, leaving only fourteen-year-old Babe at school. Even he longed for the jingle of pay-day wealth in his overalls. One day he announced at home that Mr. Hewin had taken him on as a helper. "Three dollars a week, maw. What good is school, anyway?"
Then began a new period in the life of the Cole boys. The mountain had taken them to its red bosom; the lesson of isolated self-reliance which it had taught to Pelham Judson came in parallel form to them. They were a gang, four strong, which could cope with any equal number of Lilydale negroes, or Scratch Ankle or Buzzard Roost rock-throwers. If a larger number got after them, there was the mountain they could retreat to; its rocky reinforcement and refuge furnished safety.
Stella scolded them sharply on the night when they had fought the Harlan Avenue white boys. "Let them Lilydale niggers fool wid white trash, ef dey wants to. De Judsons is quality, don't you fergit; you let dat white trash be. Fight wid you' own kind. Ef a white man gin you any trouble, you let Marster Judson fix 'im."
The lesson sank in. They were quality negroes, lords of the mountain domain. Stocky Jim was the champion rough-and-tumble fighter of the Zion Church. "Ah kin lick any three Neboes wid mah toes an' teeth," he would boast in religious snobbery. Tom had had one of Mr. Judson's shotguns, to warn off marauders; the care of this descended to Ed, as the oldest, and the boys took turns in potting rabbits, flickers, and an occasional partridge, with shells borrowed from the big house. First choice of the game went to the Judson table; but there was enough left to fill out the scanty Cole menu of corn-pone, sow-belly, molasses, and a seasonal mess of greens.
The boys practiced hurling outcrop boulders at the big-trunked oaks until they could skin the bark four times out of five at fifty feet. The outdoor life, the clearing work, the continual "toting" of water from the icy spring in balanced buckets, toughened them into exuberant manhood. They did not marry, although Stella constantly scolded the older pair for "hangin' 'roun' dem Avenoo C skirts"; and their wider rambles added grass-ripened watermelons and plump chickens to the fare.
Diana, alone of the family, found life on the mountain bleakly unhappy. She possessed a frightened, dusky beauty. Adolescence had changed her from a gawky immaturity to a lush roundness, large-lipped and full-figured, and yet with the well moulded face and the soft brown texture of skin that are occasionally found in a mixture of blood. From some Aryan ancestor she had inherited features the reverse of negroid; and she revealed nothing of the unpleasant pertness often developed in the twilight realm where black and white intermingle.
The liberating touch of education had been just potent enough to dissatisfy her with the old, and too weak to furnish a self-sufficient substitute. The world of books she had begun to explore at Tuskegee; there was no one in the family group who could go with her in the talk or the dreamings that this led to. The haphazard home life, the thick enunciation, worse at meal times, these were the things she had begun to get away from; she could not reconcile herself to the old slough of "nigger" life.
The church gave her some outlet. She joined the various Ladies' Aids, took over an advanced Sunday School class, wheedled different ones of her night-restless brothers to escort her to the Zion sociables, the chitterling suppers, the frequent revivals. But here an obstacle lay in the women of the congregation. No newfangled notions for them, thank you. They considered her careful accent, her ideas borrowed from more progressive members of her race, an affront to Lilydale's time-hallowed way of doing things; she was shouldered into the background. The few educated negro men, Wyatt the druggist, Tom Strickland, who owned the five-story building in the city, the young lawyer who lived in Lilydale, were married, or were disagreeable. They found in her only a desire for expanding culture, not its achievement; they did not seek her out.
The isolation frequently overcame her. Nauseated by the glut of the slipshod home living, she would pull open one of her text books ... often to sit and cry, unable to read a line.
"You're gettin' peaked, Diany," Stella worried. "Huc-come you ain't so pert as when you come back?... You got a good job."
"I'm all right, mother."
One night she overheard the older boys fussing at Babe. "You too little, kid. Ef a cop started chasin' you, yo' short legs wouldn't do no good."
"Ah kin run faster 'n you, Ed. An' 'Banjo' said Ah could come along," he whined. "Maw, tell Ed 'n' Will 'n' Jim not to leave me behin'."
"Where are you boys going?" asked Diana.
Ed fidgeted sourly. "Aw, nowhar."
"Ah'll tell you," said Will boastingly. "Goin' to de Union Depot, to see what we kin pick up."
"Mother, will you let yo' boys rob cars?"
"Shut up, won't you?" Ed injected savagely.
Stella looked helpless. "You boys'll be careful, won't you? Yo' pappy got caught.... Babe's too little."
"You know that that 'Banjo' Strickland is a regular criminal, ma—even his brother Tom says so."
Stella closed her mouth. "Dey kin look after dey-selves, Ah reckon. Dey's growed up."
To belong to a family of day-laborers and common thieves! In passionate rebellion she told herself that it was more than she could bear.
For several days she studied the poison labels in the Judson medicine chest. If she only knew which would be painless....
She picked her dark way, a few nights later, over the rough planking across the nearest ramp—the excavating had begun, which meant better pay for the boys, and a mountain full of white and negro workers. The chill breathing of the Autumn wind drove her limp calico skirts swirling around her body. As she entered the darker tree-shadows beyond, she stopped suddenly, a chiller fear shaking her. A dark figure stood squarely in front, a figure that made no motion of stepping out of her way.
"Where you goin', nigger?"
He was one of the men she had seen working, a slouching young fellow—a white man.
"Home," she said, in a roughened voice.
She endeavored to brush past on the lower side of the pathway; the sheer cut of the hill obstructed the upper.
He put out a friendly hand, catching her arm in rude assertiveness. "Not so fast. You're the Cole gal, ain't you?"
"I'm Diana Cole. I'm going home."
Her tone trailed off weakly, as he stepped closer. She could see his face now, uncertain eyes squinting directly at her.
"Hey, good-looker," he dropped to an ingratiating whisper, with a leer to increase the effectiveness of his words. "What you say—wanter show me a bit of good time? What you say?"
She tried to shake herself free. "Let me go! Don't dare touch me——"
"Don't say dare," Jim Hewin said warmly, his left hand sliding appraisingly up the bared softness of her right arm. "Plump, eh? Nice piece of dark meat. I like you; I'll treat you right."
A gust of sudden fright, the blind fright of the female when her well-ordered maiden state is first threatened, shook over her; her arm lashed out impotently.
He stepped aside to avoid the blow.
"If you touch me ... I'll kill you...." Her words were gasps.
He held her arms again, pushing them behind her until her face was close before his. "You black devil! I've a mind to——"
Then he pulled her closer, fastening his dry lips against her protesting mouth. For a hushed second she took the unexpected caress quiescently; then fought, kicked, scratched, to get away. He held her firmly, shaking her until she ceased. Then he let her go.
She ran a few frightened steps, then turned in the dusky safety, facing him. Her mind held only an outraged hate; her feelings quivered and rioted in disquieting turmoil.
He smacked his lips broadly.
"You—you white trash——"
He faced her coldly. "When I want you,"—whistling, as though calling a dog, he turned up toward the crest—"you'll come...."
Her heart panting in wrenching excitement, she listened to his retreating steps. She stared, helplessly rooted in the accusing silence. Her knees trembled; she waited to regain strength.
Then she moved heavily toward the house, entering by the rickety kitchen steps in the rear.
With a child's helpless seeking, she walked down the hall. She must tell her mother at once. She heard Stella's rocker moving monotonously on the sagging front porch. A loose board squeaked in soothing rhythm.
Sharply she visualized the simple, wrinkled face.... It could never understand....
She turned wearily into her own room, and threw herself face downward on the bed. The loud pounding of her heart frightened her; she turned upon her back, staring at the constricted darkness of the blank ceiling.