“Brady was getting older, getting older, and he moved out of the quarter back into the field—in that same old house he had lived in years before—by the old sugarhouse. Before he could move in he had to run possums, snakes, rats—every kind of vermin you can think of—out of the old house. House had lost couple of blocks, making the gallery lean to one side. That didn’t bother Brady—he just wanted to get away from those ‘quarter niggers.’
“He got one of them Jarreau boys to plow up enough ground to make a garden. He planted watermelons, mushmelons, snap beans, okra, tomatoes, cucumber—anything you can name, he had it. He got Will Bergeron to sell him that old truck for fifty dollars. Old truck had been setting there idle for the longest.
“Brady used to pack his gardening on that old truck and go park ’side the highway. Stay there ’til late in the evening, then come on back home. People coming in from hunting would pass by his house and see him setting on the gallery smoking his pipe. The only person he let visit him was Noah—hanh, Noah?”
Noah was a small man with a patch of hair up front, bald in the middle, and hair on the sides and back of his head. He was a widower, and for company he spent as much time at the barbershop as he did at his own home.
“I’m a Christian man—” he said.
Next to my ear I heard, “Shit, now I got to listen to a goddamn sermon.”
“And being a Christian, I feel that no matter how much a man thinks he wants to be by himself, he wants li’l company every now and then. I thought it was my Christian duty to visit him, even if he told me not to come in—being a Christian I had to try. He was setting on the garry in a rockin’ chair—one of them straw-bottom rockin’ chairs. I spoke, he spoke back.
“I started to sit down on one of the steps, but he told me to come on up. And he went inside and got another one of them straw-bottom rockin’ chairs. We set there maybe couple hours, talkin’ li’l bit; quiet awhile; talk li’l bit mo’; quiet li’l bit mo’. Went on like that for ’bout couple hours; then I told him good night.
“Next time I went by, he told me to come on up. We just set and talk, talk about anything. He always planted more than he could eat or sell. Used to give me sacks of stuff to give people in the quarter. Didn’t mind giving them food, but don’t bother him. No more hunting, eyes had gone bad; but he liked his gardening. Just like to see things grow that he planted. Sometimes we just set there a long time, not saying a word.
“He musta been living back in the field two, maybe three years when that boy—Jean-Pierre—came back.”
“That’s the one he’s goin’ to kill?”
I nodded my head.
“Finally,” I heard behind me.
“ ’Most sundown. If you looked ’cross the sugarhouse, you could see that sun slipping behind the trees. I could see that dust following that car in the quarter about a mile away. Then the car come up and stopped in front of the house. That boy looked at us awhile ’fore he got out and come in the yard.
“ ‘This my daddy’s house?’
“ ‘ ’Pending on who you looking for?’
“ ‘My daddy, Brady Sims.’
“ ‘Come on up,’ I told him. ‘That’s him sitting right there.’
“He stopped in front of Brady and stuck out his hand. Brady didn’t offer his.
“ ‘Hi, Daddy,’ he said.
“ ‘Who you?’ Brady said, looking up at him.
“ ‘Your son, Jean-Pierre.’
“ ‘I don’t know no Jean-Pierre.’
“ ‘Betty Mae son.’
“ ‘I don’t ’member no Betty Mae.’
“The boy looked at me, then back to Brady.
“ ‘You shot at me once.’
“ ‘I missed?’
“ ‘Yes, sir, and I’m glad you did.’
“ ‘I don’t ’member that. What you want?’
“ ‘I come to find my daddy.’
“ ‘You running ’way from the law, boy?’
“ ‘Of course not.’
“ ‘You running ’way from something.’
“ ‘I’m not running from nothing. I just wanted to see my daddy.’
“He stuck out his hand again. Brady still wouldn’t take it. He looked at me.
“ ‘I didn’t get your name, sir?’
“ ‘Noah Williams,’ I said.
“We shook hands.
“ ‘You stay here with Daddy?’
“ ‘No, just visitin’. I live in the quarter.’
“ ‘What kinda work y’all do around here?’
“ ‘What can you do?’
“ ‘ ’Most anything.’
“ ‘Know how to cut grass?’
“ ‘Everybody knows how to cut grass.’
“ ‘You can make some pretty good change—cuttin’ grass.’
“That boy looked down on me like I had hit him.
“ ‘Me?’ he said, and tot his chest. ‘Me? Cut grass?’
“ ‘With a mowing machine, you can make some pretty good change—enough to feed yourself.’
“ ‘Any other kinda work around here? I need money.’
“ ‘You can ax around.’
“He turnt back to Brady.
“ ‘Daddy, can I stay here couple days?’
“Brady didn’t answer him, like he didn’t know he was still there. I tot Brady on the knee, and he looked up at the boy.
“ ‘Can I stay here couple days?’
“ ‘Room over there. You got to clean it out. Sleep there if you want.’
“Boy went to the other door and pulled it open. Sun had gone down, but he could see in there.
“ ‘Good Lord, it’ll take me a day to clean this up.’
“He come on back where we was settin’. He said, ‘I’ll sleep in my car tonight. Clean it tomorrow.’
“I stayed there with Brady few more minutes, then I started for home. That boy was ’sleep in the car.”
Behind me I heard, “I ever told you about that bottle of salt water with three different colors?”
I nodded.
“Liked for me to wash her back. Stick her toes out just ’bove them bubbles—toenails painted red, green, and pink—she wiggle them a little bit. Then she do that other foot—stick her toes out just ’nough for me to see them wiggling; then she duck her foot back in the water….Lord, have mercy, she knows what she do to me—make me want to jump in that tub with all my clothes on…And you think I’ll let a ugly-ass nigger with a mouth full of cheap-ass gold take her from me—’cause he carry a gun? Shit, I carry a gun too. I can’t respect no nigger who don’t carry a gun—not in these days—shit.”
Jamison was talking again:
“Spent all day cleaning out that room. Had to use shovel, broom, and mop. When he finished, Brady was already sittin’ out on the garry smoking his pipe. Boy asked him if he needed anything. Brady didn’t answer. Stella said he came in around six o’clock that night and ordered a hamburger and a bottle of beer. Said he needed to make some money. Said he asked her if she needed any help around the place. He could wait on tables, wash dishes, clean up—anything. But she didn’t need any help. He went over to Luther, asked Luther if he needed any help in the bar; he could be bartender, he could clean up, he could be bouncer—anything. Luther didn’t need no help either. He came back about ten that night; first thing the next morning he was out there again.
“First place he stopped was the store. Will Baptiste was there talking to old Billy Boudreau in Creole. Boy come in.
“Boy: ‘You need somebody to do some work?’
“Old Billy Boudreau: ‘No.’
“ ‘I can clean up,’ the boy said. ‘I can move heavy things. Sacks of rice, sacks of flour—I can move things like that for you.’
“ ‘I just have five-pounds sack of rice; same with sacks of flour and sugar. I can move all that with one hand.’
“ ‘I can deliver things after people buy from you.�
��
“ ‘They buy, they take it with them—hanh, Will?’
“Will Baptiste nodded his head.
“ ‘I can paint the store for you. Looks like it can stand a painting.’
“Will Baptiste told us old Billy Boudreau looked around the store at every wall, even up at the ceiling.
“Said he said, ‘Will, you can recall the last time this place have been painted—if ever?’
“Will Baptiste shook his head.
“ ‘Best you look for work someplace else,’ old Boudreau told him. ‘Who are you anyway?’
“ ‘Brady Sims’s boy.’
“Old Billy Boudreau looked him over. ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember now. Y’all went to California? How’s that weather out there?’
“ ‘Fine.’
“ ‘Better than here?’
“ ‘Sometimes.’
“ ‘Yeah, yeah, I heard that. Well, best you look for work somewhere else. I don’t need help.’
“He leaves the store; next he goes to Mack Bergeron’s house. Drive in that front yard, like driving in somebody’s front yard in the quarter. Celestine said when she answered that door she nearly fainted.
“ ‘Boy, what you want?’
“ ‘They need anybody to do some work around here?’
“ ‘Boy, ain’t you got any better sense than to come up to this front door. What you think that back door is made for?’
“ ‘Just looking for work.’
“ ‘I don’t care what you looking for—you look for it at that back door. Now, you better get away from here ’fore Mr. Mack or Miss Joyce come here and catch you and that car in this front yard.’
“She slammed the door in his face.
“He left. He stopped at LeJeune plantation house; he stopped at the store. He went to Henry Riehl plantation house, stop there; went to the store. No, no, no; nobody needed any help. He stopped at the pecan factory. Didn’t need any help either. He came into Bayonne. He noticed all the things Jack Trudeau had on the sidewalk—rakes, brooms, mowing machine, a shovel, a hoe—he went in. He asked Jack Trudeau if he needed a clerk, or someone to keep records, or someone just to clean up the place. ‘Lloyd Zeno,’ said Jack Trudeau, scratching the inside of his ear (like he always do), just looked at the boy.
“Then he said: ‘Boy, where—who are you?’
“ ‘Brady Sims’s boy.’
“Lloyd said Jack Trudeau nodded for him to come over. Lloyd had been sweeping up the place.
“ ‘Claim he is one of Brady’s sons; thought they had all gone to California?’
“ ‘Last I heard,’ Lloyd said.
“Lloyd said Jack Trudeau scratch inside his ear again.
“ ‘Where you from?’ he asked.
“ ‘California.’
“Jack Trudeau looked him up and down and shook his head.
“ ‘No, I don’t need a stock clerk. I’m the stock clerk.’
“ ‘I can move things.’
“ ‘I have two boys to do that.’
“ ‘I can keep things clean around here.’
“ ‘That’s Lloyd’s job.’
“Lloyd said the boy looked around in the store, then thanked Jack Trudeau and left. Jack Trudeau followed the boy outside and watched him drive up the street. He came back in scratching his ear and talking to himself. ‘I don’t know what get into some of these niggers these days. Leave from here a few years—come back and want to be clerks. Now, Lloyd, if he had told me he wanted to be my secretary, and he could show me how to save money paying taxes—I woulda thought about hiring him. But, no—clerk.’ He scratch his ear again, and Lloyd went back to sweeping the floor.
“Jake LeCoz, Harry Green, and Sam Ferdinand was eating lunch when the boy stopped in front of the gas station. Jake asked him what he wanted. He told Jake he wanted to see the boss. Jake told him he could handle any business he needed. He said he wanted to see the boss. Jake asked him if it had anything to do with the car. He asked Jake if the boss was inside. Jake told him yes, but I wouldn’t go in if I was you. He went in. Joe DeLong was on the phone. He didn’t look at the boy until he had finished talking. Then he looked at him awhile before he asked him what he wanted.
“ ‘You got any work? I can do mechanic work.’
“ ‘Did you see those boys out there?’
“ ‘I saw them standing ’round eating.’
“ ‘Didn’t Jake tell you not to come in here bothering me?’
“ ‘He said something like that, but I—’
“ ‘Get out of here, and don’t ever come back in here again.’
“Next place he stopped, Semour drugstore. White people eating at the counter, Edna behind the counter serving, Robert Semour at the cash register. Robert sees him: ‘Hey, you looking for something?’
“ ‘You the owner?’
“ ‘I asked, are you looking for something?’
“ ‘Looking for work.’
“ ‘You’re in the wrong place. Get out of here.’
“He looked around the drugstore, especially at the white people eating at the counter.
“ ‘You hard on hearing?’ Robert said, getting up from his seat behind the cash register.
“He left. Montemare hardware store on St. Louis Street, his next stop. Montemare and two other Cajuns was in there talking in Creole. Joe Lenard was stacking cans of paint in a corner.
“Montemare saw the boy. ‘Yeah?’
“ ‘Looking for work.’
“Joe Lenard said Montemare called him. ‘Hey, Joe. Boy here says he wants your job.’
“ ‘I need it myself, Mr. Montemare.’
“ ‘Sorry, but Joe says he has to feed his children. Good luck, though.’
“He drove back to Stella, ordered a hamburger and a beer. Stella could tell he was hungry, and she gave him a plate of beans and rice and a piece of stewed chicken for the same price of a hamburger.
“ ‘Still looking ’round?’ she asked him.
“ ‘Nothing ’round here a man can do,’ he said.
“ ‘Keep trying,’ she told him. ‘Something bound to come up.’ ”
Noah Williams started talking:
“Me and Jules Grimmion was sitting on the garry talkin’. I could see the dust coming down the quarter, then the boy stopped the car before the house and came on in the yard. He spoke to us and took a seat on the steps.
“ ‘Found anything?’ I ax him.
“ ‘Nothing.’
“He sounded tired.
“ ‘How much you make cutting grass?’
“ ‘ ’Pending how hard you work. With your own tools—twenty, twenty-five dollars in a day.’
“Chocktaw could muster up thirty, thirty-five dollars. Hardworking old boy, ’til that snake caught him on the leg—a cottonmouth.”
Behind me I heard: “See what I mean? See what I mean? Now it’s Chocktaw and some fucking snake.”
“He had his own gear—weed eater—everything.”
“Chocktaw had a weed eater,” I heard behind me. “Now I have heard everything. The man kills his son with a gun; this old bastard brings up weed eater. Instead of N’Awlens, I ought to head my ass toward Jackson—listening to this shit.”
“ ‘A snake bit him?’ the boy ax.
“ ‘Cuttin’ ditch bank for Cecil Jarreau, and not wearin’ boots. Snake caught him jus’ ’bove the ankle.’
“ ‘How long do you have to work for twenty-five dollars?’
“ ‘Pretty much the whole day.’
“ ‘And for a mangy twenty-five dollars?’
“ ‘They’s some cotton picking still left out there.’
“From the steps, that boy looked up at Jules and tot his chest couple times.
“ ‘Me?’ he said. ‘Pick cotton? Me?’
“ ‘Man might do ’most anything if he get hungry enough.’
“ ‘I don’t know if y’all down here
have heard it—slavery been over.’
“ ‘We heard,’ Jules said. ‘But a man got to do somethin’ to eat and put clothes on his back.’
“The boy nodded his head and got up from the steps.
“ ‘Thank y’all for talking. I’ll keep looking around. Good night.’
“Dust followed the car down the road, back in the field.
“ ‘I hope that boy don’t do nothing crazy for money,’ Jules said.”
Jamison was talking again:
“He worked his way toward Bayonne the first day; now, the next day he went in the opposite direction. Hébert plantation—nothing doing; Samson plantation—same thing; Loddio—nothing; at Pitcher, they told him he could come back at grinding. He went to the old Creole place; they wouldn’t even talk to him there. He went to Reese Phillip gas station in Johnsonville. He went to White and Black cafés and bars in Port Alfred—but nothing doing. Noah, you said you didn’t know what it was the first time you smelled a reefer?”
Behind me I heard this intake, and this loud exhale of breath.
Noah Williams was saying:
“Sittin’ on the garry with Brady that evening, I notice a funny kinda smell. I knowed it wasn’t Brady, ’cause he smoked just Buzz tobacco. Hadn’t never been ’round nobody smoking reefers before, so I couldn’t tell what it was. Brady went on smoking his pipe and looking out at the old sugarhouse. We had been talking ’bout the sugarhouse earlier, when we used to grind cane there; and I s’pose he was still thinkin’ ’bout those old days. But me, I couldn’t get that reefer smell out my mind. After a while, Jean-Pierre started bringing a woman there. A black one at first. They be in that room laughing and talking and smoking reefers. Then they get on that bed, and you could hear that old spring even out on the garry. Th-bang, th-bang, th-bang, th-bang.
The Tragedy of Brady Sims Page 5
