Aaron Douglas
Smoke, Lilies and Jade
He wanted to do something ... to write or draw ... or something ... but it was so comfortable just to lay there on the bed ... ... his shoes off ... and think ... think of everything ... short disconnected thoughts—to wonder ... to remember ... to think and smoke ... why wasn’t he worried that he had no money ... he had had five cents ... but he had been hungry ... he was hungry and still ... all he wanted to do was ... lay there comfortably smoking ... think ... wishing he were writing ... or drawing ... or something ... something about the things he felt and thought ... but what did he think ... he remembered how his mother had awakened him one night ... ages ago ... six years ago ... Alex ... he had always wondered at the strangeness of it ... she had seemed so ... so ... so just the same ... Alex ... I think your father is dead ... and it hadn’t seemed so strange ... yet ... one’s mother didn’t say that ... didn’t wake one at midnight every night to say ... feel him ... put your hand on his head ... then whisper with a catch in her voice ... I’m afraid ... sh don’t wake Lam ... yet it hadn’t seemed as it should have seemed ... even when he had felt his father’s cool wet forehead ... it hadn’t been tragic ... the light had been turned very low ... and flickered ... yet it hadn’t been tragic ... or weird ... not at all as one should feel when one’s father died ... even his reply of ... yes he is dead ... had been commonplace ... hadn’t been dramatic ... there had been no tears ... no sobs ... not even a sorrow ... and yet he must have realized that one’s father couldn’t smile ... or sing any more ... after he had died ... every one remembered his father’s voice ... it had been a lush voice ... a promise ... then that dressing together ... his mother and himself ... in the bathroom ... why was the bathroom always the warmest room in the winter ... as they had put on their clothes ... his mother had been telling him what he must do ... and cried softly ... and that had made him cry too but you mustn’t cry Alex ... remember you have to be a little man now ... and that was all ... didn’t other wives and sons cry more for their dead than that ... anyway people never cried for beautiful sunsets ... or music ... and those were the things that hurt ... the things to sympathize with ... then out into the snow and dark of the morning ... first to the undertaker’s ... no first to Uncle Frank’s ... why did Aunt Lula have to act like that ... to ask again and again ... but when did he die ... when did he die ... I just can’t believe it ... poor Minerva ... then out into the snow and dark again ... how had his mother expected him to know where to find the night bell at the undertaker’s ... he was the most sensible of them all tho ... all he had said was ... what ... Harry Francis ... too bad ... tell mamma I’ll be there first thing in the morning ... then down the deserted streets again ... to grandmother’s ... it was growing light now ... it must be terrible to die in daylight ... grandpa had been sweeping the snow off the yard ... he had been glad of that because ... well he could tell him better than grandma ... grandpa ... father’s dead ... and he hadn’t acted strange either ... books lied ... he had just looked at Alex a moment then continued sweeping ... all he said was ... what time did he die ... she’ll want to know ... then passing thru the lonesome street toward home ... Mrs. Mamie Grant was closing a window and spied him ... hallow Alex ... an’ how’s your father this mornin’ ... dead ... get out ... tch tch tch an’ I was just around there with a cup a’ custard yesterday ... Alex puffed contentedly on his cigarette ... he was hungry and comfortable ... and he had an ivory holder inlaid with red jade and green ... funny how the smoke seemed to climb up that ray of sunlight ... went up the slant just like imagination ... was imagination blue ... or was it because he had spent his last five cents and couldn’t worry ... anyway it was nice to lay there and wonder ... and remember ... why was he so different from other people ... the only things he remembered of his father’s funeral were the crowded church and the ride in the hack ... so many people there in the church ... and ladies with tears in their eyes ... and on their cheeks ... and some men too ... why did people cry ... vanity that was all ... yet they weren’t exactly hypocrites ... but why ... it had made him furious ... all these people crying ... it wasn’t their father ... and he wasn’t crying ... couldn’t cry for sorrow altho he had loved his father more than ... than ... it had made him so angry that tears had come to his eyes ... and he had been ashamed of his mother ... crying into a handkerchief ... so ashamed that tears had run down his cheeks and he had frowned ... and some one ... a woman ... had said ... look at that poor little dear ... Alex is just like his father ... and the tears had run fast ... because he wasn’t like his father ... he couldn’t sing ... he didn’t want to sing ... he didn’t want to sing ... Alex blew a cloud of smoke ... blue smoke ... when they had taken his father from the vault three weeks later ... he had grown beautiful ... his nose had become perfect and clear ... his hair had turned jet black and glossy and silky ... and his skin was a transparent green ... like the sea only not so deep ... and where it was drawn over the cheek bones a pale beautiful red appeared ... like a blush ... why hadn’t his father looked like that always ... but no ... to have sung would have broken the wondrous repose of his lips and maybe that was his beauty ... maybe it was wrong to think thoughts like these ... but they were nice and pleasant and comfortable ... when one was smoking a cigarette thru an ivory holder ... inlaid with red jade and green....
he wondered why he couldn’t find work ... a job ... when he had first come to New York he had ... and he had only been fourteen then was it because he was nineteen now that he felt so idle ... and contented ... or because he was an artist ... but was he an artist ... was one an artist until one became known ... of course he was an artist ... and strangely enough so were all his friends ... he should be ashamed that he didn’t work ... but ... was it five years in New York ... or the fact that he was an artist ... when his mother said she couldn’t understand him ... why did he vaguely pity her instead of being ashamed ... he should be ... his mother and all his relatives said so ... his brother was three years younger than he and yet he had already been away from home a year ... on the stage ... making thirty-five dollars a week ... had three suits and many clothes and was going to help mother ... while he ... Alex ... was content to lay and smoke and meet friends at night ... to argue and read Wilde ... Freud ... Boccacio and Schnitzler ... to attend Gurdjieff meetings and know things ... Why did they scoff at him for knowing such people as Carl ... Mencken ... Toomer ... Hughes ... Cullen ... Wood ... Cabell ... oh the whole lot of them ... was it because it seemed incongruous that he ... who was so little known ... should call by first names people they would like to know ... were they jealous ... no mothers aren’t jealous of their sons ... they are proud of them ... why then ... when these friends accepted and liked him ... no matter how he dressed ... why did mother ask ... and you went looking like that ... Langston was a fine fellow ... he knew there was something in Alex ... and so did Rene and Borgia ... and Zora and Clement and Miguel ... and ... and ... and all of them ... if he went to see mother she would ask ... how do you feel Alex with nothing in your pockets ... I don’t see how you can be satisfied ... Really you’re a mystery to me ... and who you take after ... I’m sure I don’t know ... none of my brothers were lazy and shiftless ... I can never remember the time when they weren’t sending money home and your father was your age he was supporting a family ... where you get your nerve I don’t know ... just because you’ve tried to write one or two little poems and stories that no one understands ... you seem to think the world owes you a living ... you should see by now how much is thought of them ... you can’t sell anything ... and you won’t do anything to make money ... wake up Alex ... I don’t know what will become of you....