The Intruder

by Charles Beaumont

  “It’s sure funny,” Joan said. “Mr. McDaniel looked to me like a right sensible man. Why’d he want to go and do a thing like that, I couldn’t even begin to guess. I thought—”

  “A thing like what?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Adam saw the look of amazement and said quickly, “I was up pretty late last night, working on some papers.”

  “You mean you ain’t heard about it?”

  Harold had put down his newspaper, the Farragut Express, and was also staring. “The nigras is back in school,” he said. “Right now. All but a couple.”

  Joan took a bite from her chocolate doughnut.

  “Mr. McDaniel, over to the Messenger, gone up to Simon’s Hill,” she said, “and walked ’em all down, right through the streets this morning. Then he got into a fight with”—she hesitated—“with some folks, and he’s in the hospital. Hurt pretty bad, I hear. Some busted ribs and a lot of what they call internal injuries. What’d Viola tell you, Harold, about what else?”

  “Well, I guess he might lose one of his eyes.”

  “Such a smart man!”

  “Sure would hate to be that smart,” Harold said. “Look where you land!”

  “Who was it?” Adam asked suddenly. “I mean, that he got into the fight with?”

  “Can’t say for sure,” Joan said, winking. “Old Ollie managed to arrest three—Ted Manning and two others, I forget. He claimed there was at least fifteen, but they got away. Ted and them said they never touched Mr. McDaniel and they can’t remember who did, either, or even who else was there.”

  “What about McDaniel, though? He should remember.”

  “Yeah, but he ain’t conscious yet,” Harold said. “What they did was, they put him under dope right away. But he ought to be coming out of it any time, that’s what Viola said.” The toothless man chuckled. “I expect there’s a few people kind of worried along about now. You suppose that might be right, young fella?”

  Adam put down a fifty-cent piece and started for the door.

  It opened before he could reach it.

  Bart Carey, Phil Dongen and Lorenzo Niesen came inside.

  “There he is,” Niesen said, in a high-angry voice. “Right there.”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Carey said and walked up to Adam.

  He held out the newspaper he had been carrying. “I guess you seen this,” he said. “There was a shipment sent to Higgins’ Drugstore and some others.”

  Adam said nothing, but took the paper. It was, he saw, one of the sensational New York dailies.

  The large type on page one read: FIREBRAND IN THE SOUTH. And underneath, in smaller print: See Page 16 for Shocking Story of Adam Cramer, Young Terrorist Who Seeks to Defy U.S. Gov’t.

  He looked up at the unsmiling faces and turned to page sixteen of the paper.

  A quarter of the page was filled by a poor photograph of Adam on the courthouse steps, surrounded by a large crowd. It had been taken during his first speech.

  Beneath the photograph was the title again, with the by-line: Edward Driscoll.

  He turned the page and was confronted with a second photograph, showing him and Preston Haller together. He remembered when they’d had it made—on Venice Pier, in one of those silly snapshot booths, almost two years ago; they’d been drunk.

  There was also a picture of Adam’s mother, with the notation: Photo by Peter Link.

  “You got anything to say for yourself?” Lorenzo Niesen demanded angrily.

  “When I’ve read the article, I’ll answer you.”

  He sat down at one of the tables, spread the paper on the checkered oilcloth and read carefully. It was mostly about his life in Los Angeles, although there were some quotes from Caxton residents.

  When he came to the section which recounted his dates with the colored girl, Alice, he tightened; but he did not change his expression.

  “What about it?” Carey said.

  Adam closed the newspaper. “I’m impressed,” he said, smiling.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. I’m impressed with the lengths they’re willing to go to stop us. Apparently we’re a lot more important than we thought!”

  “Skip all that,” Niesen said. “Just tell us what this means about you and the nigger girl.”

  Adam stared scornfully at the little man, and gave no hint of the wild thoughts that were exploding inside his mind, no hint of the cold terror he was feeling; the immediate, ineluctable sense of urgency.

  “Well?”

  “Relax, Mr. Niesen,” Adam said. “I’ll be happy to explain the whole thing.”

  25

  Although he had been conscious for several minutes, fully aware of Ruth’s presence and of Ella’s, Tom did not move or speak until he was certain that he was truly himself.

  Then, in a quiet but clear voice, he asked: “Am I going to lose the eye?”

  This startled Ruth. Her head came up quickly, and she glanced at Ella.

  “No,” Tom said. “Don’t call them, yet.”

  Ella stopped at the door.

  He looked at Ruth. “I’d like to know,” he said. “I’m pretty sure the rest of me will live.”

  She took his hand, and said, “It’s badly damaged. But I spoke to Doctor Hill and he said—”

  “Tell the truth.”

  “He said that there’s a chance—” Ruth bit her lower lip and kept from crying in that way.

  “What odds?” Tom asked. He was becoming aware of the pain now. It seemed dull and slight, but he knew that this was because of the drugs. It would get worse every minute. Probably it would be more than he could take. He wasn’t used to pain.

  “What odds, honey? Ninety-ten? Sixty-forty?”

  “Doctor Hill doesn’t know,” Ruth said.

  “But he thinks I’ll lose it? Straight, now. Be honest.”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Okay.” Tom felt a tongue of fire lick suddenly across his head. He reached up and touched the bandages, then touched the other bandages on his face. “They did a thorough job, didn’t they?” he said. “How many stitches?”

  Ruth was about to answer, but Ella cried “Dad!” and ran to the bed and pressed her face against the sheets. She said “Dad” over and over into the sheets, and continued to sob. Tom had not felt such closeness with his daughter for many years. It warmed him. He lifted his hand and patted Ella’s head gently and said, “It’s all right, kitten. I’m all right. It’s all right.”

  He held onto the closeness a few seconds longer, then motioned to Ruth.

  Ruth took Ella’s arm and walked with her to the door. “Go home, now,” she said. “It’s late, and we mustn’t upset your father. He’s going to be fine. I’ll be along in a while.” She unsnapped her purse and removed a five-dollar bill and gave this to Ella. “Take a taxi, dear,” she said.

  Then, when Ella had gone from the room, Ruth clutched Tom’s hand and wept, also. The pains were becoming more frequent now and soon, he knew, they would have to call the nurse for some morphine, or whatever they were using; but for a while he could think clearly and sharply and be all aware, and this was precious time. He would hang on as long as possible and not show the pain.

  He lifted his wife’s face, and saw in her eyes—and knew he saw, because he was not hallucinatory or detached, as he had been at first—a new sort of light; and even though her next words might show that he had been right when he’d told Abel Green that perhaps he was losing his family, he had to hear the words.

  “Pretty stupid of me, wasn’t it?” he said.

  She took from her purse one of those small, thin, useless handkerchiefs that women carry, and wiped her eyes.

  She looked at her husband with this new light and said: “Yes, it was. You might have been killed. Or crippled for life.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” Ruth said. “Don’t be sorry. Because I’m not.”

  He pressed his teeth together ti
ghtly until the hot lightning-streak had run its course.

  “I’m not in the least sorry,” Ruth said. She looked at her husband straight, and spoke the words distinctly. “It was the best thing you’ve ever done,” she said, “and I’m proud of you. I never understood how you felt before. Before, it was a lot of words. I should call the doctor now; I should tell them to come; but I want to say this to you first. Can you understand me?”

  Tom said, “Yes.”

  “I wish I could tell you that I know why you did what you did, or why you think the way you do; but I can’t lie to you, Tom. We can’t ever do that to each other, ever again. I don’t know. Not in my heart. All my life I’ve taken certain things for granted, and I’ve never questioned them. You accept these things when you’re young and you don’t think about them afterwards. They’re too deep, too much a part of you. . . .”

  She sat quietly for a moment, then continued: “I don’t believe in integration, Tom. The idea of Ella going to school with Negroes is repulsive to me. It would take all the strength I have to shake hands with one of them on equal terms. When I heard of what had happened to you, do you know who I blamed? Them. And I wished that they would all die for what they’d done to you.” She paused again and chose her words carefully. “But I do believe in you,” she said. “And if this means so much that you’re willing to risk everything, even your own life, for it, then I know it must be right. I can’t doubt that now. It’s right because you believe it’s right. So I’m going to try to understand. I’m going to try very hard, darling. I only ask you to give me a little time. Please. Please give me a little time—”

  Tom McDaniel stroked his wife’s face for a long moment, feeling the hot moisture of her tears and feeling a happiness so profound and so real that it smothered the pain. He could bear the pain now. He could bear anything.

  “I love you,” he said softly.

  “Tell me it isn’t too late.”

  “It isn’t,” he said. “It never is.”

  “I’ll try. So will Ella. She’s young; maybe it won’t be so hard for her. We’ll send Dad away—he was in that Klan parade. I’ve got to tell you the truth!”

  “I knew about it.”

  “It was a circus for him. But I don’t think he would hurt anyone, not even— We’ll get him a room at the Union. Mrs. Lambert will look after him. I don’t care what he says. It will be just us, darling, just us together. . . .”

  Tom nodded; then a pain worse than any of the others came, and he tried not to make any noise but it was no use. He clenched his hands and moaned.

  Ruth got up quickly and walked toward the door. “I’ll call Doctor Hill now,” she said.

  Tom said, “All right.”

  He waited for the pain to go, then he lay back and thought many things.

  Ella paid the taxi driver and went into the house. The television set was on, loud, and she could see the gray-thatched top of Gramp’s head in the easy chair.

  “Well, how is he?” the old man said, not bothering to turn.

  Ella had stopped crying in the taxi, but for some reason Gramp’s voice started the tears again, and she could not answer. She stood in the center of the living room, by the couch, her head bowed and her hands at her sides.

  “Goddamnit, you gone deaf? I asked a question.”

  She tried again to answer, but could only succeed in making a choking sound.

  Gramp twisted his head around, stared for a moment, then snapped the television set off and got up. “You look beautiful,” he said. “Your face all red and snot running down your nose, you look beautiful. Ain’t you got a handkerchief?”

  Ella took a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. She saw Gramp and the furniture and the house, but all this time she also saw her father in the hospital bed, and the corridors of the hospital, and the fat, efficient nurse.

  Gramp came closer. “What’d she do,” he demanded, “tell you not to talk to me?”

  Ella shook her head.

  “Well, then, for Christ Almighty’s sake, answer my question. Is he alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, go on, go on!”

  “He had four broken ribs and—and—”

  “Shit! You’re just like your mother, you want to keep everything to yourself. Well, I happen to live here too, young lady. I got a right to know what the hell’s going on. Four broke ribs and what else?”

  “Internal injuries. And they hurt his eye. Doctor Hill says—”

  “Yes?”

  “Daddy might lose his eye.”

  “Anything else?” David Parkinson waited; then he made a snorting sound and shuffled into the bathroom. He opened a small box and took three red pills out of it. He swallowed the pills. “Well,” he said, “he was goddamn lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “That’s right! In my day they’d of strung a man up for doing what he done. And I’d of helped with the rope, too! What’s the matter with him, anyway? Has he gone cuckoo? Shit, I knew he was spineless and I always guessed he was a lot fonder of them niggers than he let on, but I never thought he’d go and disgrace us like this. How’m I gonna face my friends now? Huh? I ain’t never been so embarrassed in my whole life!”

  Ella could not believe the things she was hearing. Even from Gramp, it seemed impossible.

  “Dad’s hurt,” she said, stunned.

  “Hurt, my back end,” the old man said. He sank onto the couch and put a hand to his chest. “That’s the way it is, though,” he said. “Your mother will probably simper around him all day, where they got doctors, and leave me here alone. She knows I could get an attact any minute! But does she care? Hurt!” He snorted again. “Listen, I had every bone in my body broke and you never heard any complaints. Nobody did. I bore it like a man. But Tom McDaniel ain’t a man, and he never was, and he proved it today.”

  “You shut your filthy stinking mouth!” Ella screamed.

  Gramp recoiled. Trembling, he said, “Why, you little no-good bitch! Don’t you ever raise your voice to me or I’ll turn your ass red, and don’t think I can’t do it! What I’m telling you is the truth. It’s facts. That father of yours is a nigger-loving coward and when he gets out of that hospital he’s gonna be ran out of Caxton on a rail, you mark my words!”

  “You’re a liar! You’re a rotten liar!”

  “You mean it was somebody else went up the Hill and brought them niggers down to school, it wasn’t Mr. Thomas McDaniel? Who was it, then? His twin brother? I didn’t know he had a twin brother.”

  Ella stood there, unable to move, unable to think above her fury.

  “Oh, it was him, all right. But I wasn’t surprised. If you hadn’t of been sitting around all the time with your finger up your hole, and nothing on your brain but boys—and listen, I seen you plenty of times at night, when you was supposed to be asleep, reading them movie star magazines! And I know what you was thinking about! I know!—if you had even the sense you was born with, you could of seen this coming. Anybody could.” David Parkinson removed a handkerchief and spat into it. “Well, you just wait,” he said. “It’ll only be a matter of time before he brings home a big buck nigger to spend the night. Of course, now, we’re kinda shy on room, so like as not you’ll have to share your bed with him. But you won’t mind that, will you, because this here’s a guest. And we got to be polite to guests!”

  Ella tried to answer, but her mind was so full of thoughts, and her throat was so tight and painful, that instead she turned and ran to her room. She slammed the door and threw herself onto the bed.

  No, she thought, no, that couldn’t happen.

  Then another thought came. It was very unclear, and she was not fully aware of it; but it came.

  What is a Negro, anyway?

  Are they what Gramp is talking about, what he’s talked about for years: black brainless stinking creatures prowling the bushes of the night, glittering razors in dark hands, ready to kill and rob any white man or rape any white girl passing?

  Is
that what they are? And if it is, why would Dad want to help them?

  That tall young fellow in the clean white shirt named Joey Green who is just as smart as anyone in English, and in math, and who would look so handsome if he—

  Is that what a Negro is?

  Or are there both kinds, like with us?

  He’s not brainless. I don’t think he smells.

  He’s—

  Ella felt a chill and curled up in the bed; she came so close to sleep, she scarcely heard the telephone.

  It rang three times.

  On the fourth ring, she got up and walked into the hallway. Gramp was sitting in the chair in front of the television set, but the set was not switched on.

  Ella lifted the receiver and said, “Hello,” mechanically.

  The voice shocked her. “Ella, this is Adam. Don’t hang up.”

  She had managed, somehow, to put him out of her mind, to forget (actually, to forget!) that she ever had anything to do with the person who was causing all this trouble.

  “Ella!”

  She pulled the phone away from her ear and heard the tiny voice calling her name insistently. Only now, at this instant, did she realize that it was true; that the handsome young man who had come to the town a stranger a few days ago was responsible for everything.

  And realizing this, she was afraid.

  “Ella, listen to me. It’s important.”

  She put the phone back to her ear. She said, “What do you want?”

  His voice was different now. All the humor was gone, all the grown-up, crazy fun. “Is your mother there?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then; listen. You and I have got to talk. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

  “No. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you.”

  “Ella, I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I can explain it.”

  “No,” Ella said.

  There was a pause. “If you’re interested in saving your father’s life,” the voice said, “you’d better be ready in ten minutes.”

  The connection broke. The telephone whined.

  Ella put it down slowly. Her hand was trembling, and she felt cold again—colder than she’d ever felt before. She wanted to go into the bedroom and lock the door and never leave, but she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t do anything.