Afternoon

Jake ran at a violent, clumsy pace. He went through Weavers Lane and then cut into a side alley, climbed a fence, and hastened onward. Nausea rose in his belly so that there was the taste of vomit in his throat. A barking dog chased beside him until he stopped long enough to threaten it with a rock. His eyes were wide with horror and he held his hand clapped to his open mouth.

Christ! So this was the finish. A brawl. A riot. A fight with every man for himself. Bloody heads and eyes cut with broken bottles. Christ! And the wheezy music of the flying-jinny above the noise. The dropped hamburgers and cotton candy and the screaming younguns. And him in it all. Fighting blind with the dust and sun. The sharp cut of teeth against his knuckles. And laughing. Christ! And the feeling that he had let loose a wild, hard rhythm in him that wouldn’t stop. And then looking close into the dead black face and not knowing. Not even knowing if he had killed or not. But wait. Christ! Nobody could have stopped it.

Jake slowed and jerked his head nervously to look behind him. The alley was empty. He vomited and wiped his mouth and forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Afterward he rested for a minute and felt better. He had run for about eight blocks and with short cuts there was about half a mile to go. The dizziness cleared in his head so that from all the wild feelings he could remember facts. He started off again, this time at a steady jog.

Nobody could have stopped it. All through the summer he had stamped them out like sudden fires. All but this one. And this fight nobody could have stopped. It seemed to blaze up out of nothing. He had been working on the machinery of the swings and had stopped to get a glass of water. As he passed across the grounds he saw a white boy and a Negro walking around each other. They were both drunk. Half the crowd was drunk that afternoon, for it was Saturday and the mills had run full time that week. The heat and the sun were sickening and there was a heavy stink in the air.

He saw the two fighters close in on each other. But he knew that this was not the beginning. He had felt a big fight coming for a long time. And the funny thing was he found time to think of all this. He stood watching for about five seconds before he pushed into the crowd. In that short time he thought of many things. He thought of Singer. He thought of the sullen summer afternoons and the black, hot nights, of all the fights he had broken up and the quarrels he had hushed.

Then he saw the flash of a pocketknife in the sun. He shouldered through a knot of people and jumped on the back of the Negro who held the knife. The man went down with him and they were on the ground together. The smell of the Negro was mixed with the heavy dust in his lungs. Someone trampled on his legs and his head was kicked. By the time he got to his feet again the fight had become general. The Negroes were fighting the white men and the white men were fighting the Negroes. He saw clearly, second by second. The white boy who had picked the fight seemed a kind of leader. He was the head of a gang that came often to the show. They were about sixteen years old and they wore white duck trousers and fancy rayon polo shirts. The Negroes fought back as best they could. Some had razors.

He began to yell out words: Order! Help! Police! But it was like yelling at a breaking dam. There was a terrible sound in his ear—terrible because it was human and yet without words. The sound rose to a roar that deafened him. He was hit on the head. He could not see what went on around him. He saw only eyes and mouths and fists—wild eyes and half-closed eyes, wet, loose mouths and clenched ones, black fists and white. He grabbed a knife from a hand and caught an upraised fist. Then the dust and the sun blinded him and the one thought in his mind was to get out and find a telephone to call for help.

But he was caught. And without knowing when it happened he piled into the fight himself. He hit out with his fists and felt the soft squish of wet mouths. He fought with his eyes shut and his head lowered. A crazy sound came out of his throat. He hit with all his strength and charged with his head like a bull. Senseless words were in his mind and he was laughing. He did not see who he hit and did not know who hit him. But he knew that the line-up of the fight had changed and now each man was for himself.

Then suddenly it was finished. He tripped and fell over backward. He was knocked out so that it may have been a minute or it may have been much longer before he opened his eyes. A few drunks were still fighting but two dicks were breaking it up fast. He saw what he had tripped over. He lay half on and half beside the body of a young Negro boy. With only one look he knew that he was dead. There was a cut on the side of his neck but it was hard to see how he had died in such a hurry. He knew the face but could not place it. The boy’s mouth was open and his eyes were open in surprise. The ground was littered with papers and broken bottles and trampled hamburgers. The head was broken off one of the jinny horses and a booth was destroyed. He was sitting up. He saw the dicks and in a panic he started to run. By now they must have lost his track.

There were only four more blocks ahead, and then he would be safe for sure. Fear had shortened his breath so that he was winded. He clenched his fists and lowered his head. Then suddenly he slowed and halted. He was alone in an alley near the main street. On one side was the wall of a building and he slumped against it, panting, the corded vein in his forehead inflamed. In his confusion he had run all the way across the town to reach the room of his friend. And Singer was dead. He began to cry. He sobbed aloud, and water dripped down from his nose and wet his mustache.

A wall, a flight of stairs, a road ahead. The burning sun was like a heavy weight on him. He started back the way he had come. This time he walked slowly, wiping his wet face with the greasy sleeve of his shirt. He could not stop the trembling of his lips and he bit them until he tasted blood.

At the corner of the next block he ran into Simms. The old codger was sitting on a box with his Bible on his knees. There was a tall board fence behind him, and on it a message was written with purple chalk.

He Died to Save You Hear the Story of His Love and Grace Every Nite 7.15 P.M.

The street was empty. Jake tried to cross over to the other sidewalk, but Simms caught him by the arm.

‘Come, all ye disconsolate and sore of heart. Lay down your sins and troubles before the blessed feet of Him who died to save you. Wherefore goest thou, Brother Blount?’

‘Home to hockey,’ Jake said. ‘I got to hockey. Does the Saviour have anything against that?’

‘Sinner! The Lord remembers all your transgressions. The Lord has a message for you this very night.’

‘Does the Lord remember that dollar I gave you last week?’

‘Jesus has a message for you at seven-fifteen tonight. You be here on time to hear His Word.’

Jake licked his mustache. ‘You have such a crowd every night I can’t get up close enough to hear.’

‘There is a place for scoffers. Besides, I have had a sign that soon the Saviour wants me to build a house for Him. On that lot at the corner of Eighteenth Avenue and Sixth Street. A tabernacle large enough to hold five hundred people. Then you scoffers will see. The Lord prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; he anointeth my head with oil. My cup runneth——’

‘I can round you up a crowd tonight,’ Jake said.

‘How?’

‘Give me your pretty colored chalk. I promise a big crowd.’

‘I’ve seen your signs,’ Simms said. ‘ “Workers! America Is the Richest Country in the World Yet a Third of Us Are Starving. When Will We Unite and Demand Our Share?”—all that. Your signs are radical. I wouldn’t let you use my chalk.’

‘But I don’t plan to write signs.’

Simms fingered the pages of his Bible and waited suspiciously.

‘I’ll get you a fine crowd. On the pavements at each end of the block I’ll draw you some good-looking naked floozies. All in color with arrows to point the way. Sweet, plump, bare-tailed——’

‘Babylonian!’ the old man screamed. ‘Child of Sodom! God will remember this.’

Jake crossed over to the other sidewalk and started toward the house where he lived. ‘So long, Brother.’

‘Sinner,’ the old man called. ‘You come back here at seven-fifteen sharp. And hear the message from Jesus that will give you faith. Be saved.’

Singer was dead. And the way he had felt when he first heard that he had killed himself was not sad—it was angry. He was before a wall. He remembered all the innermost thoughts that he had told to Singer, and with his death it seemed to him that they were lost. And why had Singer wanted to end his life? Maybe he had gone insane. But anyway he was dead, dead, dead. He could not be seen or touched or spoken to, and the room where they had spent so many hours had been rented to a girl who worked as a typist. He could go there no longer. He was alone. A wall, a flight of stairs, an open road.

Jake locked the door of his room behind him. He was hungry and there was nothing to eat. He was thirsty and only a few drops of warm water were left in the pitcher by the table. The bed was unmade and dusty fluff had accumulated on the floor. Papers were scattered all about the room, because recently he had written many short notices and distributed them through the town. Moodily he glanced at one of the papers labeled ‘The T.W.O.C. Is Your Best Friend.’ Some of the notices consisted of only one sentence, others were longer. There was one full-page manifesto entitled ‘The Affinity Between Our Democracy and Fascism.’

For a month he had worked on these papers, scribbling them during working hours, typing and making carbons on the typewriter at the New York Café, distributing them by hand. He had worked day and night. But who read them? What good had any of it done? A town this size was too big for any one man. And now he was leaving.

But where would it be this time? The names of cities called to him—Memphis, Wilmington, Gastonia, New Orleans. He would go somewhere. But not out of the South. The old restlessness and hunger were in him again. It was different this time. He did not long for open space and freedom—just the reverse. He remembered what the Negro, Copeland, had said to him, ‘Do not attempt to stand alone.’ There were times when that was best.

Jake moved the bed across the room. On the part of the floor the bed had hidden there were a suitcase and a pile of books and dirty clothes. Impatiently he began to pack. The old Negro’s face was in his mind and some of the words they had said came back to him. Copeland was crazy. He was a fanatic, so that it was maddening to try to reason with him. Still the terrible anger that they had felt that night had later been hard to understand. Copeland knew. And those who knew were like a handful of naked soldiers before an armed battalion. And what had they done? They had turned to quarrel with each other. Copeland was wrong—yes—he was crazy. But on some points they might be able to work together after all. If they didn’t talk too much. He would go and see him. A sudden urge to hurry came in him. Maybe that would be the best thing after all. Maybe that was the sign, the hand he had so long awaited.

Without pausing to wash the grime from his face and hands he strapped his suitcase and left the room. Outside the air was sultry and there was a foul odor in the street. Clouds had formed in the sky. The atmosphere was so still that the smoke from a mill in the district went up in a straight, unbroken line. As Jake walked the suitcase bumped awkwardly against his knees, and often he jerked his head to look behind him. Copeland lived all the way across the town, so there was need to hurry. The clouds in the sky grew steadily denser, and foretold a heavy summer rain before nightfall.

When he reached the house where Copeland lived he saw that the shutters were drawn. He walked to the back and peered through the window at the abandoned kitchen. A hollow, desperate disappointment made his hands feel sweaty and his heart lose the rhythm of its beat. He went to the house on the left but no one was at home. There was nothing to do except to go to the Kelly house and question Portia.

He hated to be near that house again. He couldn’t stand to see the hatrack in the front hall and the long flight of stairs he had climbed so many times. He walked slowly back across the town and approached by way of the alley. He went in the rear door. Portia was in the kitchen and the little boy was with her.

‘No, sir, Mr. Blount,’ Portia said. ‘I know you were a mighty good friend of Mr. Singer and you understand what Father thought of him. But we taken Father out in the country this morning and I know in my soul I got no business telling you exactly where he is. If you don’t mind I rather speak out and not minch the matter.’

‘You don’t have to minch anything,’ Jake said. ‘But why?’

‘After the time you come to see us Father were so sick us expected him to die. It taken us a long time to get him able to sit up. He doing right well now. He going to get a lot stronger where he is now. But whether you understand this or not he right bitter against white peoples just now and he very easy to upset. And besides, if you don’t mind speaking out, what you want with Father, anyway?’

‘Nothing,’ Jake said. ‘Nothing you would understand.’

‘Us colored peoples have feelings just like anybody else. And I stand by what I said, Mr. Blount. Father just a sick old colored man and he had enough trouble already. Us got to look after him. And he not anxious to see you—I know that.’

Out in the street again he saw that the clouds had turned a deep, angry purple. In the stagnant air there was a storm smell. The vivid green of the trees along the sidewalk seemed to steal into the atmosphere so that there was a strange greenish glow over the street. All was so hushed and still that Jake paused for a moment to sniff the air and look around him. Then he grasped his suitcase under his arm and began to run toward the awnings of the main street. But he was not quick enough. There was one metallic crash of thunder and the air chilled suddenly. Large silver drops of rain hissed on the pavement. An avalanche of water blinded him. When he reached the New York Café his clothes clung wet and shriveled to his body and his shoes squeaked with water.

Brannon pushed aside his newspaper and leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘Now, this is really curious. I had this intuition you would come here just after the rain broke. I knew in my bones you were coming and that you would make it just too late.’ He mashed his nose with his thumb until it was white and flat. ‘And a suitcase?’

‘It looks like a suitcase,’ Jake said. ‘And it feels like a suitcase. So if you believe in the actuality of suitcases I reckon this is one, all right.’

‘You ought not to stand around like this. Go on upstairs and throw me down your clothes. Louis will run over them with a hot iron.’

Jake sat at one of the back booth tables and rested his head in his hands. ‘No, thanks. I just want to rest here and get my wind again.’

‘But your lips are turning blue. You look all knocked up.’

‘I’m all right. What I want is some supper.’

‘Supper won’t be ready for half an hour,’ Brannon said patiently.

‘Any old leftovers will do. Just put them on a plate. You don’t even have to bother to heat them.’

The emptiness in him hurt. He wanted to look neither backward nor forward. He walked two of his short, chunky fingers across the top of the table. It was more than a year now since he had sat at this table for the first time. And how much further was he now than then? No further. Nothing had happened except that he had made a friend and lost him. He had given Singer everything and then the man had killed himself. So he was left out on a limb. And now it was up to him to get out of it by himself and make a new start again. At the thought of it panic came in him. He was tired. He leaned his head against the wall and put his feet on the seat beside him.

‘Here you are.’ Brannon said. ‘This ought to help out.’

He put down a glass of some hot drink and a plate of chicken pie. The drink had a sweet, heavy smell. Jake inhaled the steam and closed his eyes. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Lemon rind rubbed on a lump of sugar and boiling water with rum. It’s a good drink.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘I don’t know offhand, but I’ll figure it out before you leave.’

Jake took a deep draught of the toddy and washed it around in his mouth before swallowing. ‘You’ll never get the money,’ he said. ‘I don’t have it to pay you—and if I did I probably wouldn’t, anyway.’

‘Well, have I been pressing you? Have I ever made you out a bill and asked you to pay up?’

‘No,’ Jake said. ‘You been very reasonable. And since I think about it you’re a right decent guy—from the personal perspective, that is.’

Brannon sat across from him at the table. Something was on his mind. He slid the salt-shaker back and forth and kept smoothing his hair. He smelled like perfume and his striped blue shirt was very fresh and clean. The sleeves were rolled and held in place by old-fashioned blue sleeve garters.

At last he cleared his throat in a hesitating way and said: ‘I was glancing through the afternoon paper just before you came. It seems you had a lot of trouble at your place today.’

‘That’s right. What did it say?’

‘Wait. I’ll get it.’ Brannon fetched the paper from the counter and leaned against the partition of the booth. ‘It says on the front page that at the Sunny Dixie Show, located so and so, there was a general disturbance. Two Negroes were fatally injured with wounds inflicted by knives. Three others suffered minor wounds and were taken for treatment to the city hospital. The dead were Jimmy Macy and Lancy Davis. The wounded were John Hamlin, white, of Central Mill City, Various Wilson, Negro, and so forth and so on. Quote: “A number of arrests were made. It is alleged that the disturbance was caused by labor agitation, as papers of a subversive nature were found on and about the site of disturbance. Other arrests are expected shortly.” ’ Brannon clicked his teeth together. ‘The set-up of this paper gets worse every day. Subversive spelled with a u in the second syllable and arrests with only one r.’

‘They’re smart, all right,’ Jake said sneeringly. ‘ “Caused by labor agitation.” That’s remarkable.’

‘Anyway, the whole thing is very unfortunate.’

Jake held his hand to his mouth and looked down at his empty plate.

‘What do you mean to do now?’

‘I’m leaving. I’m getting out of here this afternoon.’

Brannon polished his nails on the palm of his hand. ‘Well, of course it’s not necessary—but it might be a good thing. Why so headlong? No sense in starting out this time of day.’

‘I just rather.’

‘I do think it behooves you to make a new start. At the same time why don’t you take my advice on this? Myself—I’m a conservative and of course I think your opinions are radical. But at the same time I like to know all sides of a matter. Anyway, I want to see you straighten out. So why don’t you go some place where you can meet a few people more or less like yourself? And then settle down?’

Jake pushed his plate irritably away from him. ‘I don’t know where I’m going. Leave me alone. I’m tired.’

Brannon shrugged his shoulders and went back to the counter.

He was tired enough. The hot rum and the heavy sound of the rain made him drowsy. It felt good to be sitting safe in a booth and to have just eaten a good meal. If he wanted to he could lean over and take a nap—a short one. Already his head felt swollen and heavy and he was more comfortable with his eyes closed. But it would have to be a short sleep because soon he must get out of here.

‘How long will this rain keep on?’

Brannon’s voice had drowsy overtones. ‘You can’t tell—a tropical cloudburst. Might clear up suddenly—or—might thin a little and set in for the night.’

Jake laid his head down on his arms. The sound of the rain was like the swelling sound of the sea. He heard a clock tick and the far-off rattle of dishes. Gradually his hands relaxed. They lay open, palm upward, on the table.

Then Brannon was shaking him by the shoulders and looking into his face. A terrible dream was in his mind. ‘Wake up,’ Brannon was saying. ‘You’ve had a nightmare. I looked over here and your mouth was open and you were groaning and shuffling your feet on the floor. I never saw anything to equal it.’

The dream was still heavy in his mind. He felt the old terror that always came as he awakened. He pushed Brannon away and stood up. ‘You don’t have to tell me I had a nightmare. I remember just how it was. And I’ve had the same dream for about fifteen times before.’

He did remember now. Every other time he had been unable to get the dream straight in his waking mind. He had been walking among a great crowd of people—like at the show. But there was also something Eastern about the people around him. There was a terrible bright sun and the people were half-naked. They were silent and slow and their faces had a look in them of starvation. There was no sound, only the sun, and the silent crowd of people. He walked among them and he carried a huge covered basket. He was taking the basket somewhere but he could not find the place to leave it. And in the dream there was a peculiar horror in wandering on and on through the crowd and not knowing where to lay down the burden he had carried in his arms so long.

‘What was it?’ Brannon asked. ‘Was the devil chasing you?’

Jake stood up and went to the mirror behind the counter. His face was dirty and sweaty. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He wet his handkerchief under the fountain faucet and wiped off his face. Then he took out a pocket comb and neatly combed his mustache.

‘The dream was nothing. You got to be asleep to understand why it was such a nightmare.’

The clock pointed to five-thirty. The rain had almost stopped. Jake picked up his suitcase and went to the front door. ‘So long. I’ll send you a postcard maybe.’

‘Wait,’ Brannon said. ‘You can’t go now. It’s still raining a little.’

‘Just dripping off the awning. I rather get out of town before dark.’

‘But hold on. Do you have any money? Enough to keep going for a week?’

‘I don’t need money. I been broke before.’

Brannon had an envelope ready and in it were two twenty-dollar bills. Jake looked at them on both sides and put them in his pocket. ‘God knows why you do it. You’ll never smell them again. But thanks. I won’t forget.’

‘Good luck. And let me hear from you.’

‘Adios.’

‘Good-bye.’

The door closed behind him. When he looked back at the end of the block, Brannon was watching from the sidewalk. He walked until he reached the railroad tracks. On either side there were rows of dilapidated two-room houses. In the cramped back yards were rotted privies and lines of torn, smoky rags hung out to dry. For two miles there was not one sight of comfort or space or cleanliness. Even the earth itself seemed filthy and abandoned. Now and then there were signs that a vegetable row had been attempted, but only a few withered collards had survived. And a few fruitless, smutty fig trees. Little younguns swarmed in this filth, the smaller of them stark naked. The sight of this poverty was so cruel and hopeless that Jake snarled and clenched his fists.

He reached the edge of the town and turned off on a highway. Cars passed him by. His shoulders were too wide and his arms too long. He was so strong and ugly that no one wanted to take him in. But maybe a truck would stop before long. The late afternoon sun was out again. Heat made the steam rise from the wet pavement. Jake walked steadily. As soon as the town was behind a new surge of energy came to him. But was this flight or was it onslaught? Anyway, he was going. All was to begin another time. The road ahead lay to the north and slightly to the west. But he would not go too far away. He would not leave the South. That was one clear thing. There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.