The Angry Ones
Page 18
I could hear the sound of my fist landing against his jaw. I could see him flying back into the wall, see the blood spring like a new well from his mouth. And my arm was coming forward again. I exulted in the clean way it plunged away from my shoulder. Lint, the evening before, had been for me and me alone, but this would be for Teddy and Frankie and all the kids like them who might have to face Rollies on the way up. And it would be for the little old ladies upstate and in Minnesota who sank their money in Rocket books.
And then, clumsily and with much scraping of the feet, I stopped. I stood trembling, looking at Rollie, who with wide eyes moved away.
There he was, half-man, half-woman, typical of our stop-go, no-yes, hello-good-bye world; split. He had been ready to stand there and feed on my violence, to let it do something which could make his world and personality whole. That’s what their massive retaliation was, Obie, the plugging up of their world rent with holes through which people like Crispus and Rollie climbed at the same time from opposite sides.
I had it, Obie, I had it. Let them shake and expect the violence they deserve, but never, never give it to them, Obie, because they derive strength from it, as Rollie wanted strength from me now. But I wasn’t going to give it to him.
I waved good-bye to Rollie and left his office. I saluted Leah on the way out. I stopped at the cigarette counter downstairs. I was out of smokes and needed a lift badly. My eyes sought out the English Ovals, the cigarettes I smoked when I was flush. I thought of the lean days ahead and considered whether I should spend the extra pennies for the Ovals, or stick to my regular brand, five cents less.
“To hell with it,” I said aloud.
“Sir?” the clerk said.
“Ovals.”
He gave me the pack, then the matches. I paid him and hurried into the street. I hopped aboard a bus. I wanted to get home quickly.
I rushed into the apartment and picked up the phone, wondering what my folks would say when I told them in my next letter. I dialed her number and waited while I got transferred from one extension to another.
Finally she was on, saying breathlessly, “Steve! Steve! What is it? What’s happened?”
“Nothing, baby, nothing. Sorry to call you at work. Listen, I’ve been sort of out of my mind for a while, but now I got some sense and I wonder if you’d marry me in a few months or so. I have to get another job—it has to be a good one because I don’t want to live in Albany and I—”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I said yes. What did you think I was going to say?”
“Grace, I don’t know. People have been saying so damned many things lately.”
“Are you all right?”
“Never better.”
“Shall I come down this week end?”
“No. I want to come up.”
Cautiously, she asked, “Are you sober?”
“Yes. You don’t think I’d ask you to marry me if I were drunk, do you? I ask everyone else when I’m drunk.”
Her laughter came bubbling out of the phone and I laughed too, I swear to God. For the first time in centuries, it seemed, I laughed.
“C’mon, get off,” I said. “You’re running up the bill. Have to watch that.”
“See you Friday.”
She was gone then. I rushed to put the coffee on and got on the phone again.
“Mr. Graff, please,” I said. I hummed as I waited.
“Hello, Steve! How are you?”
“You remember me?”
“Did you think I’d forgotten you?”
“Well, I didn’t know.”
“Glad you called. Got time to talk about some things?”
“Right now,” I said, as the coffee began to perk merrily on the gas, “I’ve a few minutes. I’ll see you in an hour, if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine. See you then.”
I stood up as I sipped my coffee and peered out the window. It seemed that spring was coming early.
About the Author
John A. Williams (1925–2015) was born near Jackson, Mississippi, and raised in Syracuse, New York. The author of more than twenty works of fiction and nonfiction, including the groundbreaking and critically acclaimed novels The Man Who Cried I Am and Captain Blackman, he has been heralded by the critic James L. de Jongh as “arguably the finest Afro-American novelist of his generation.” A contributor to the Chicago Defender, the New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times, among many other publications, Williams edited the periodic anthology Amistad and served as the African correspondent for Newsweek and the European correspondent for Ebony and Jet. A longtime professor of English and journalism, Williams retired from Rutgers University as the Paul Robeson Distinguished Professor of English in 1994. His numerous honors include two American Book Awards, the Syracuse University Centennial Medal for Outstanding Achievement, and the National Institute of Arts and Letters Award.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1960 by John A. Williams
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2591-1
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
EARLY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
EBOOKS JOHN A. WILLIAMS
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia