Delta Blues

by Carolyn Haines

  Bertie, she got to screaming loud, “Daddy! Daddy!” and Ethel slide down the north wall just sobbing. The white man look back at Ethel, strike a match with his thumb that he done pull from his pocket, drop it inna kerosene and say, “Y’all cook real good now.” And make his exit.

  I don’t member much else but the flash of fire and watching my father go up in flames. We fly from the room, down them stairs into the shop, and out the door.

  Outside Greenwood Avenue weren’t nothing but a mass of fire so far as your eye could see. Whites there rounding up Negroes all long the way, just like livestock, and carting them off to parts unknown. Folk who resist was shot on site. And there it were, whole colored side of the Frisco tracks burning, crumbling, falling away to nothing, the night sky above filling with smoke and black dust.

  “We making our stand at Stovepipe Hill!” someone were heard to shout. But what that mean to three small childrens who just seen they only parent knock down dead as a old stone and they home disappear in one blazing flash? It ain’t mean nothing at all, I tell you that. So we just to stood there, eyes wide like six burning suns, as the whole goddamn world die all round us.

  All sudden a wild spirit up and grab me and I done found myself to running right on back inside that burning shop.

  “Junior! No!” Ethel holler. But I ain’t pay her no mind.

  I gone straight on behind that front counter, grab up my father guitar case and kept right on to running back outside. That there case, I couldn’t hardly lift it, and my two broke fingers got to throbbing and pounding something evil. But I’s needing what was in it. I done knowed that I did.

  No sooner I be outside again a black automobile screech to a stop right by us, and a young, well-dressed Negro man we ain’t never seen fore in our lives jump right out.

  “Y’all okay?” he axe. “Get inna car. Imma git you out of here now.”

  We ain’t move a hair.

  “Y’all stay here and you gonna burn right up,” he say. “Either that or them white men gonna haul you off to a camp. You want that?”

  Not so much as a twitch, you hear. Just three little old scarecrows swaying inna hot breeze of a flaming city.

  “Ethel?” he say. “Bertie? Junior? Last chance now.”

  After a short breath of hesitating, we crawls on into that vehicle. Yes we did. Nothing to lose, you understand. The young man he shut the door for us, jump on in his own self, and we speed off into the night.

  “Where you need to go?” he axe further. “You got family anywhere close by?”

  Only family I ever did know was Ethel, Bertie, and our old man. But Ethel she manage to squeak out, “We g-gots kin in … in Doddsville.”

  “Doddsville? Mississippi?”

  “Y-yes sir.”

  “Goddamn … that’s a long haul. But … I’ll take you there.”

  “Th-thank you sir.”

  “This is bad …” he mutter under his breath, pressing the pedal and sending us off with a screech. “Worse than ‘92. Worse than ‘65. Haven’t seen it like this since 1896.”

  I ain’t had no earthly notion of what he saying. But I ain’t truly care none. Shock had me closed up good.

  And so we done drived all through the night, not speaking nother solitary word, leaving a burning Tulsa and every last bit of life as we done knowed it far behind. And there I set clutching all I had left of old man in my one good hand, t’other hand aching and stinging for what his killer done left me with.

  COME SUN UP the man he drop us off at Aunt Bessie house. She come crying and wailing offa that front porch just grabbing us up so tight we bout like to smother, and screaming Why Lord why O sweet Jesus?

  Aunt Bessie led the girls on inna house, and I be fixing to follow, when that man he lay his hand on my shoulder. I turn round to face him.

  “You gonna carry that with you, Junior?” he axe, pointing at my father guitar case I gots clutched tight cross my chest. I nod my head yes. “Figure you gonna use that machine in there?” he tap the case. “Use it like your father did?” I nod again. He smile wide. “Well in that circumstance, I reckon we’ll be meeting each other again. We’ll likely have to strike up a deal when you get grown. I can help you, Junior. I can help you when you need it. And you gonna need it.”

  That young man he say fare thee well, and set off inna dust of the morning. Never even done give his name.

  Clarksdale callin’, baby

  Don’t you know I be on my way …

  I AIN’T THAT BONEY LITTLE BOY NO MORE. No sir. I’s well a full-grown man these here days, and believe that I sure enough got my growth. I ain’t called The Ox for no damn reason, hear?

  Us three, we shuffle round tween aunts, uncles, and cousins til we old enough to make our own ways. Both my sisters they done settle down in Selma, Alabama with husbands and childrens in tow. I use to see them round holidays and such. But I don’t see them no more. Folk grow apart. It be that way sometime. Me, I drived a mule-plow inna fields all through the South while I’s raising up, spending my weekends picking my father guitar in jooks when I gots the age to do it. Time come I made my way riding onna music alone. Weren’t long fore my crazy two-slide playing ways had folk packing joints everywhere this side of the Mississippi. Everywheres cepting Oklahoma. Swore on my father unmarked grave I weren’t never setting foot in that town again.

  I do admit I done had occasion to fall into them old traps of The Blues Man: fighting, drinking, gambling, kicking the gong round, having to stomp a body or get my own self stomped for making time with Mr. So-and-so wife. You understand. Ain’t nothing I’s proud of, that just be the life of a rambling man. Yes sir.

  But things they do haunt me. Things that got this boy shaking and sick at night, trying to cry even as a full grown man, but ain’t got what it take to do it. It be locked up in my throat and I can’t push it on out. That night in Tulsa burn through my very dreams, and I can’t never shake it. That look inna eyes of my father when that bullet done rip through his chest, his life leaking out his back all down the wall. Way that ofay who kill old man look hard on my sister with some manner of lust and hate the likes of which not a body alive should have put down on them. That old Whitney, with his intentions. It weigh down hard on me, like that load I tote cross my back. It gets to aching all through me, like them two wrecked up fingers on my right hand. Ain’t no liquor brewed up by man gonna give me the cure I be needing. No sir. Ain’t not a one. Though I tries to find it all same.

  Something else haunt me s’well, if haunt the proper word for it. Some nights when I be playing my songs for the people to dance to, I sometime look out and see that man who done drived us to Mississippi. Never don’t talk or nothing, he just out inna crowd. Somewheres inna back. Sometime he tip his hat and smile. But I gits to looking down at my picking hand for one little old second, look up … and he gone.

  It weren’t just at jooks I seen him at. No sir. Even as just a boy I be out plowing or picking inna fields and I would have to swear to holy Jesus that I would see that man out yonder far off. He be right there. But I blink my eyes, turn my head just so, and he ain’t there no more when I look on back. Figure that he would stroll on out where I be and chew the rag a spell. I thank him for his kindness. But always he done gone like a wisp onna wind. I ain’t seen him again for many a year, til I start to playing jooks. And then it be just a moment here and a moment there.

  He done said that we meet again, but we don’t never meet. I be seeing him, but then he gone.

  Thing that trouble my mind, though, is that he … he don’t never seem to get no older. From seven year old to twenny-one I done seen this man off and on, and he don’t ever age a solitary day. My death right now if I tells a lie.

  Just like a dog inna thunder Lord

  Can you hear me weep and moan

  Just like a dog inna thunder

  Lord Lord Lord

  Can’t you hear me weep and moan

  There be a roar of hellfire all round me, Lord

 
And I’s out here on my own …

  And so it come to pass that I finds myself right there in Clarksdale, Mississippi. Some colored folk working fields right onna outskirts of Coahoma County was fixing to pitch a ball out at a old farmhouse, and some ruckus was sure enough a cinch to go down. For such affairs as these a loud, hard-driving guitar player be needed, and there plenty to pick from round Clarksdale. But come on now. Ain’t nobody to call on in that situation but the Plow Boy hisself. And let me tell you, them folks ain’t disappoint, and I ain’t disappoint them. The Spirit were sure nuff moving all over that joint, but weren’t nothing holy bout it, no sir. Got paid in a fine hot meal and a good bit of jingle for my pocket. And the lady of the house she tip me a bit more on top. You understand.

  Next day I gits up and heads off inna town for to buy me a new hat and walking shoes. Just cause the notion please me. So light in my step I was right then I ain’t even barely notice all them ofays milling bout they business. Turning right up East Second Street … that there where I done seen him.

  Climbing up inna driver side of a flatbed truck I seen that square flat top first off. Same push broom haircut I seen fourteen year ago, now with a good helping of salt mix in that block of black pepper. Softer rounda middle too, but still hard cut like a rock. And just so as I can be sure of what I be seeing, I hears, “Come on, Whitney, move on over and let me drive,” a younger white man say huffing up to the vehicle.

  “Shut the hell up and git in,” old Whitney he bark back at him, and the kid do just that. My slide fingers got to throbbing just to see the man, and he musta felted my stare on him right then cause he turn them Devil eyes right on me and he say, “You need something, boy?”

  I just kept on to looking and not moving one muscle. ‘Fore too long he just drive away.

  Next eight hours or more I set right onna side of that street there just playing my guitar. And thinking evil. Ain’t git up to eat or make water or nothing. Just set and play til the sun start to setting. Couple folk drop a coin or two, but most just walk on by. Don’t make me no nevermind one way or t’other. I just had to set and play and that alla what I could do. Thinking on Tulsa, thinking on Senior Lewis, thinking on the life we all done had. Thinking on what be all gone now. Thinking evil.

  I ain’t know if he were coming back. Old White Whitney. But I had a notion that he just might. And come sundown I seen that flatbed truck once again. Both them mens git out from they vehicle sweating and dusty, and head on into a white folk tavern.

  “HELLS BELLS you a big’n, ain’t you?” Barkeep say to me, sizing me up and stepping on back a piece. “Can I help you?”

  Old Whitney there with his young friend, and there I be, standing right behind that pale old rat as he set stuffing his mouth with corn bread. So close I coulda snap his goddamn neck right then. Barkeep eye me real nervous-like and I stands there holding my guitar with my left hand, clicking my slides together with my right. Clickclack. Clickclack. Don’t think I could stop the clicking even if I’s wanting to.

  “Well, sir,” I says smiling real wide, “name of Plow Boy Lewis at your service. I be just to passing right through your fine town here and I gots a bit of rumbling in my belly. Now, I ain’t got too much inna way of money to pay, but I were hoping that maybe I could set yonder and play a coupla tunes for your patrons here in exchange for a meal or the like. I surely don’t mind setting out back to eat. No sir. Don’t mind at all.”

  Horse shit, you understand. I weren’t hungry. I couldn’t eat nothing just then nohow. But I had to see up close with my own eyes that man. That man who done set the fire and pull the trigger that done took my whole life away.

  “We don’t have that kind of music here, and we don’t serve your … kind of food here neither. You just go on git now.”

  I stood right still, holding a molded grin on my face.

  “Is he gonna hafta tell you again, boy?” Whitney grunt, turning toward me. “You simple? You deef? The door’s thataway. Consider yourself warned for the last time.”

  So I smile, nod my head real nice, and make my way on outside.

  And inna dark, I waits.

  People be coming and going mosta night. Time come and folk got to be leaving and no one new replace them. I seen that younger white man come stumbling out and walk on his way alone. And then finally … there he. My man. The one I be waiting on. Out onna streets by hisself. And with not a care in his heart, I reckon. And nothing else neither.

  At his truck I were there waiting fore even he git there his own self.

  “Don’t turn round,” I say.

  “What the goddamn—”

  “And don’t make one more noise. Just git to walking.”

  And that’s just what he done with nary another word from me—.38 pressing right on inna curve in his back saying all what need to be said.

  SO WE GOT TO WALKING. Offa street. Outta town. Inna dust. Into the thick of trees. Frogs and insects screaming out inna night. He in front, me behind toting that guitar on my back, alla while the muzzle of my father pistol pointing straight at his goddamn head.

  And we don’t say nothing for long time.

  “You pull that trigger you gonna swing, boy,” he say after we got to walking a fur piece. “You know that, right.”

  Imma swing if I pull the trigger or not, I says inside my own mind. But I don’t mutter not a word out loud. We just walk. Deep into the black of the night. I hears his breathing git heavy. He start to jabbing his heels inna soft ground further we go. Just a little old protest, I reckon. But we keeps on moving.

  “I can git you money, if that’s what you want, boy,” his voice git to cracking.

  I laughs a bit onna inside. But I don’t say nothing and we just to keep on. Keep on. Keep on …

  “TURN ROUND,” I says finally.

  And he do. I holds that .38 on him with my left hand just as still as you please.

  “Reckon both us done rambled to Clarksdale,” I says some more. “Now who would figure such a thing? Reckon it’s fate?”

  “I just f-follow the work,” he stutter.

  “Well, Mister, that make two of us. You knowing me, Mr. Whitney?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” he say real quiet like. “Should I?”

  “Some might to say that yes you should. Sure nuff. Yes indeed. Uh huh. So … question for you.”

  “All . all right.”

  “You gots dogs at home, Mr. Whitney?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Answer my question now.”

  He scratch the back his head and spit onna ground.

  “I’m afraid I don’t r-rightly understand yer question.”

  “Now, Mr. Whitney. It surely ain’t no hard thing to answer. Mean to say, you either gots dogs or you ain’t. So, do you gots dogs at your home? Yes or no?”

  “I keep … two mutts for hunting, yes I do.”

  “Do they git to crying and whimpering come a thunder storm?”

  He blink hard twice, eyeing my .38.

  “What now?”

  “DO THEY CRY AND WHIMPER IN A THUNDER STORM!”

  That rage just got to flooding all through my body, you understand. My right hand got to shaking, and that glass slide got on to clackety clack clacking against the brass. Clack clack clack clack. Clack clack clack clack. For a moment, but for the crickets and tree frogs, it were the only sound.

  “I … I suspect they do.”

  Clack clack clack clack clack.

  “Even the biggest, meanest dog inna world will git to whimpering and wailing in a storm, won’t he, Mr. Whitney?”

  “Um … I reckon. I reckon he will at that, yes.”

  “Now, Mr. Whitney, why do you suspect that be?”

  Clack clack clack clack clack clack.

  “Don’t … don’t rightly know.”

  Clack clack clack clack.

  He git to fidgeting with his fingers as he can’t seem to take his eyes offa my right hand shaking harder now. Clack clack clack clack clack clack
clack.

  “Well, Mr. Whitney … I gots a notion I git to studying on from time to time. Don’t call me a expert now, it just a notion. But it seem to me that a house dog will cry all through a storm … just cry cry cry … cause thunder make him come to realize … that he alone. You understand?”

  “Um.”

  “Dogs is just like us, hear? They lie to they own selfs, just like we do. Most time your dog he think the life he gots in your house, it’s just fine and dandy. And he think on you and your kin and the other dogs inna house as his pack, all right. But you ain’t. We ain’t. We ain’t no kin for a dog. Out inna wild, dogs and wolfs they run in packs of they own. And in a storm they locks in close together for to keep warm and safe.

  “But house dog ain’t got no pack … and the sound of thunder draw out that fear and pain like dredging a dark, cold lake. You alone inna world, thunder say to a dog. All. Alone. All alone. So . he cry.”

  With that I squeeze the trigger just as I pulls my arm to the left, sending that bullet blasting just over his right shoulder. He jump with a start, bugeye, and git to trembling.

  “You hearing that dog thunder, Whitney? You hears it? I do. Yes sir. I hears it. I hears it ALLA TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME!”

  Right then that man he git to shaking hard, worser than my right hand. Mouth quivering like jelly on a spoon.

  “Look here,” he say, “I . I don’t know what it is you want from me, but you just name it. All right? Just name it now.”

  So many things I could name right then. So many. But instead I just squeeze the trigger again.

  And I pull that shot just like the first. Stack of Bibles I did. Sure as I live and breathe I done sent it over his shoulder again. But that ain’t where it done gone. Goddamn if that bullet ain’t break right on through his left cheek.

  He stumble back with the wild-eye in dead shock. Then fall flat to the ground.