by Daniel Black
“Well now she bigger’n a house, but she still cute.”
“I gotta go see dat girl.”
“She’d be glad to see you, Possum. Lotta folks would.”
Enoch and Possum rose to enter the house for the evening. At the screen door, they paused.
“I ain’t laughed like dat in years, Enoch.” Possum smiled.
“Home has a way o’ doin’ dat to a person,” Enoch said. Then he and Possum embraced for a very long time.
Fifteen
THE ALARM SOUNDED PROMPTLY AT SEVEN, AS IT HAD DONE every morning since Rosenthal’s return South.
“Good morning, Sutton,” Rosenthal growled, studying the eye, then returning it to the glass throne. “Did you sleep well?”
When his wife Marissa was living, she often rose at six, telling Rosenthal that any man worth a dime was up and out by seven. Usually he just laughed and slept another hour. Yet since her death, Rosenthal sometimes slept long after nine, simply because nothing compelled him to rise. With Sutton around, however, he once again felt motivated to live.
“Didn’t sleep a wink, huh?” Rosenthal laughed at himself. “Well, you’re in a new place, and sometimes sleeping in a new place can be difficult. Anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”
Again, Rosenthal sat naked on the edge of the bed. The bright sunshine glaring through the window invigorated him. “It’s a great day, Sutton. What shall we do?” He stood and stretched. “I’m going to take good care of you. Don’t you worry. I want us to be good friends, maybe even family.” He touched Sutton gently, and said, “Now! Let’s find some breakfast.”
Rosenthal picked up the glass stand upon which Sutton rested and carried it carefully into the kitchen.
“Let’s put you right here,” he said sweetly, and placed the stand in the center of the table. Then he opened the white lace curtains and sunshine flooded the room. “That’s better!” he noted as he looked around.
Rosenthal walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and bent slightly to see what breakfast food it contained. The sunlight accented his snow-white butt cheeks, which were pointed directly toward Sutton. When he stood, an accidental bumping of the table sent the eye toppling off its glass throne.
“Oh my God,” he screeched. “Did I hurt you—again?”
Temporarily halting breakfast, he retrieved Sutton from the floor.
“Are you all right?” he asked, rolling the eye around in his hand. “I don’t see any bruises or scrapes, so I guess you’re okay.”
He returned Sutton to the throne.
“I need to be more careful, huh? Since you’re not like us—well, I mean, since you’re not … a real … um … person … well, I mean you are a real person, Sutton, but since you don’t have … um … ah, you know what I mean! I just need to be more careful with your kind.”
Rosenthal turned and excavated a frying pan from a lower cabinet. The long, black hairs covering his buttocks, contrasted sharply with the whiteness of his cheeks.
“I hate to imagine how they separated you from the rest of your body,” Rosenthal commented. “Some white men are sick, Sutton. There’s no other way to explain it. I can’t believe they beat you out of a human skull!” Rosenthal envisioned the act and his stomach churned, leaving a vile taste in his mouth. “Such ignorant fuckers! Why couldn’t they just beat … well, never mind. It’s over now.” He turned quickly. “I’m not saying they should have beat you or anything like that. I’m just saying it would have been better, you know, if they hadn’t been so … so violent.”
Staring at Sutton, Rosenthal recalled how, years ago, Sutton’s eyes had pleaded with him for mercy he never showed.
“I’d like to bind Sheriff Cuthbert, Cecil, Larry Greer, and whoever else beat you and let your people beat them to death,” he said, flipping bacon strips. “It would only be fair. If coloreds ever take vengeance on us, it’s gonna be Armageddon.” He cracked eggs into a small bowl and, covering them with salt and pepper, stirred vigorously. “It was probably a whole gang of them, huh? That’s how they do it. In a group. Fuckin’ cowards. They always need an audience. That’s because it’s not really about you. Not really. It’s about proving their boldness to their friends. Your people just happen to be the means by which this … um …”—he snapped his fingers until the word came—“virility … gets established. It’s pretty fuckin’ sick, to tell you the truth, but it is what it is.”
He poured the excess bacon grease into a tin container. “They usually taunt first. They probably called you all sorts of terrible names and then pushed you around for a while before they made you”—he didn’t want to say it, but felt compelled to be honest—“suck them off. I could see Billy Cuthbert doing that. He’s always been our resident rascal. They’re white trash although they’re rich. White trash can be wealthy, too, you know?”
Rosenthal placed bacon, eggs, and bread on the octagon-shaped kitchen table. He continued talking as he removed jelly and orange juice from the icebox.
“The real shame is that you couldn’t have done anything so bad that it required your dismemberment. Y’all never do. You’re such a nice people. I’ve known your folks for years. They work hard and never gripe about it. Those men should be ashamed of themselves.”
When Rosenthal turned to sit, he bumped the table again, this time sending the throne crashing to the floor.
“Oh shit!” he screamed. “I’m sorry, Sutton!”
Rosenthal tiptoed through broken glass, and, with a spoon, scooped the eye from the floor, examining it anxiously. Relieved that it appeared to have suffered no physical damage, he said, “I’m glad you’re resilient. All of your people are. That’s what makes you people so strong. You survive regardless of how evil white people treat you. And you never become violent in return. That’s pretty amazing. Well, sometimes you do, but usually you don’t. I admire that quality about nig—coloreds.”
Searching the cabinets for another throne, Rosenthal found a large punch bowl, and said, “This’ll work,” and placed it upside down on the table. “I’ll try to be more careful this time. I’m ’bout as clumsy as they come!” he cackled. “You be careful, too, young man. You might not be so lucky next time.”
Rosenthal swept the floor twice to assure that no microscopic pieces of glass escaped his broom. Then he resumed his seat and bowed. “Dear Lord, we give thanks for this food and this bountiful morning. I am grateful for the presence of Sutton and our newfound friendship, and I pray that more people find the joy we’ve found.” He paused. “In forgiveness. Amen.”
He fixed two plates. “I know you can’t eat, but I thought you’d find the gesture pleasing.” He smiled at his own consideration.
“I hope you like your eggs scrambled hard. I do. Come to think of it, I don’t like soft foods. I’m a meat and potato kind of guy, know what I mean?”
He nodded as though expecting a response.
“You’d like my eggs. I know you would. My mother taught me how to make the perfect scrambled eggs. She always cracked them in a bowl first, to make sure they weren’t defective, and then she’d add a little milk. That makes them fluffy and tasty.”
Rosenthal chewed hard and fast, like one devouring his last supper.
“Then she’d sprinkle the eggs with salt. I’ve never been one for lots of salt, but I love pepper. I probably love it too much, but I can’t eat eggs or anything else without it.”
He smiled.
“Elijah used to cook for us sometimes, especially after Mom got sick. His pepper and garlic fried chicken was delicious! Make a man wanna die on the spot!” Rosenthal suddenly covered his mouth. “I’m sorry. That comment was thoughtless and insensitive of me. I didn’t mean to make light of dying, especially in a time like this. It’s just an old saying anyway. Think nothing of it.”
He washed down a mouthful of bacon-egg mixture with a gulp of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“You were really brilliant, you know? That’s what made me and probably the sheriff so ma
d. We couldn’t figure out how nig—coloreds! Damn! I keep doing that!—come out of the fields and manifest such extraordinary intelligence. It just isn’t logical. But you stood up that day and put us white boys to shame. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. At least that’s what I had been taught. And you probably said something to Catherine Cuthbert that made her feel small and insulted. I know it’s not your fault, but I wish your people would be a little more careful in that regard. Sometimes we white folk are a little, let’s say … insecure. Not that it’s your job to pamper our insecurities, but since y’all keep losing your lives when you try to embarrass us, it might be wise to tone down that, shall we call it, unbridled display of intelligence? I’m probably not explaining this well.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Oh Sutton! How did it ever come to this? We have to do better. I mean, we white folks.” He chewed toast and reclined in the narrow kitchen chair. “Your people won’t stay nice always, will they, Sutton? They can’t. They’d be extinct if they did. Just like the Indians are now. It’s a shame what white explorers did to all those Indians. And then sent them away on the Trail of Tears.” He stared into space for a long while.
“But not coloreds!” he said. “Your people are stubborn, Sutton. I guess that can be a good thing. If it had been me, though, I would have left the South years ago when slavery ended. But to each his own!”
Rosenthal resumed eating. “Your granddaddy, Jeremiah, and the others are planning to fight back this time. I think that’s great. I just hope it doesn’t lead to bloodshed, you know what I mean?” He heard an automobile door slam.
“Shit! Who the hell … ,” Rosenthal murmured, struggling to peek out of the window. “We’re not prepared to receive visitors!”
He scurried to the bedroom and covered himself with a bathrobe. He had hardly reentered the kitchen when he heard the knock at the door.
“Just a moment,” he cried out in panic. He stood before the kitchen door, trying to prepare himself to entertain an uninvited guest.
“Mr. Rosenthal!” a familiar voice called. “It’s me, Patrick.”
Rosenthal opened the door only slightly, hoping that, after a moment or two of general conversation, he could return to Sutton.
“Good morning, Patrick,” Rosenthal whispered through a crack in the door.
“Did I trouble you, sir?” Patrick asked, sensing he had interrupted something.
“Oh no!” Rosenthal denied. “I … um … was eating my breakfast. But it’s fine. Really.”
The fake smile disturbed Patrick even more. “Maybe I should come back later,” he suggested.
“Well, is there something I can help you with?”
Patrick hung his head and said, “I dropped by to see if you wanted some fish. You know I always bring you fish if I catch any.”
“Well, I sure do thank ya, son. Just leave them on the porch here and I’ll get them after I get dressed.” Rosenthal stepped back to close the door.
“But,” Patrick said abruptly, “I need to talk to you, too. It’s real important.”
Fuck, Rosenthal mumbled in his head. “Um … okay. Just give me a second.” He closed the door and wiped the sweat from his brow. He almost forgot about Sutton, sitting atop the punch bowl bottom, but when he remembered, he grabbed it and slid it into the hip pocket of his bathrobe. He hated his disjointed behavior, but for now, he decided to do the best he could.
“Come on in,” he told Patrick, and opened the kitchen door widely. “My house is a mess.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, Mr. Rosenthal,” Patrick smiled. “My folks ain’t neva been ones to keep no clean house.”
Just say what you want and get the hell out, Rosenthal thought, but instead he said, “Can I offer you some breakfast?”
Patrick saw the other plate sitting on the table. “Are you expecting someone?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to barge in and—”
“No, no!” Rosenthal waved frantically. “I … um … just cooked too much and I put it on the table just in case someone came by. Sit down, sit down and help yourself.” Rosenthal pushed Patrick’s shoulder slightly toward the chair.
“Well, thank you, sir,” Patrick said, and relaxed in the chair. “I don’t mind if I do have a li’l breakfast.”
Eat and get the fuck out, will ya? Rosenthal murmured inaudibly. He wrapped the robe around himself tighter, trying to make sure he kept his privates concealed.
“So what’s on your mind?”
“Well, I don’t quite know how to say this …”
“Just say it!” Rosenthal belted. “I mean … you know you can tell me anything. Don’t be afraid.”
“Well, okay, Mr. Rosenthal.” Patrick swallowed the food in his mouth and blurted, “I wuz in de river checkin’ my trot lines this mornin’ and I found a body hangin’ from one o’ de hooks.”
Rosenthal went pale. Patrick immediately saw the horror on his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rosenthal. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.” He began to rise from the chair.
“Oh no, son. It’s fine. I … um … just hate to hear these kinds of things.” His back moistened with sweat. Stay calm, he kept reminding himself. “Go on,” he told Patrick.
“Well, like I said, I was checkin’ my trot lines down by de old bridge when I felt somethin’ real heavy at the end of the line. I wuz thinkin’ a real big catfish or somethin’ had done got hooked, but when I pulled de line up out o’ de water, I saw a body. It like to scared me to death.”
Patrick ate casually, expecting Rosenthal to respond any minute. “Well, what did you do?” Rosenthal asked.
“I tried to pull it out o’ de water, but it wuz too heavy. An old gin fan was tied to the neck with some balin’ rope, so I cut the fan loose and pulled de body out o’ de water. Dat fan musta weighed seventy-five or eighty pounds.” Patrick took a long gulp of orange juice. “I think it’s dat colored boy, Mr. Rosenthal.”
Rosenthal’s head was swimming, but he couldn’t let Patrick know. “Why … um do you think it’s de colored boy, Patrick?”
“’Cause de lips are real big and de hair on its head—what’s left of it—is like nigger hair. I can show you.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and began to rise.
“Show me? How can you show me?” Rosenthal muttered.
“I got de body in de back o’ my truck outside. Dat’s why I come here, Mr. Rosenthal, to see if you could tell me for sure who it is.”
“Me? Why me?” Rosenthal cried.
“’Cause you real smart, sir, and you know most o’ de people in dis town. Momma say you talks to colored people, too, so I figured you might be able to tell me if de body is dat colored boy’s or not.”
“Why didn’t you just take it to some colored people and ask?” Rosenthal felt urine trickle down his leg.
“I didn’t want to upset them. Anyway, if the body is dat colored boy’s, I’d like to know before I say anything. No need in upsettin’ people for no good reason. They’re probably nervous and all, you know?”
“Yes, I can understand.”
Patrick motioned for Rosenthal to follow him. “Come look and tell me if you think this is de colored boy who’s been missin’.”
Rosenthal stumbled over a chair.
“You all right, Mr. Rosenthal?” Patrick frowned. “You look a little pale. Have you been gettin’ enough rest?”
“I’m fine, son,” Rosenthal said, collecting himself and retying his robe.
“Okay, well, come look and tell me what you think.”
Patrick waltzed out of Rosenthal’s kitchen door as carefree as a child going to hunt for blackberries. Rosenthal walked slowly, his vision blurred and his heart pounding like a hammer against a stubborn nail.
“I covered it with a old blanket I had layin’ in de truck,” Patrick said, “but that’s the best I could do. I didn’t wanna leave it in de river.”
Rosenthal had not yet made it to the truck. He felt nauseous and feared he might faint when he laid e
yes on whatever was under Patrick’s covering. Knowing he couldn’t stall forever, he took a deep breath and shuffled to the bed of the truck.
“The body’s pretty bad-lookin’,” Patrick warned, “and it smells something awful. I hope you got a strong stomach.”
Rosenthal’s belly went sour. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the gory features of a mutilated, bloated body, but his imagination fell far short of what Patrick unveiled.
“Oh God!” Rosenthal yelled, and vomited. Had he not grabbed the truck’s railing, he would have stumbled to the ground.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Rosenthal!” Patrick cried helplessly. “I didn’t know it would upset you like this.”
“I’m”—breath—“okay.” Rosenthal huffed and spit until he regained composure.
“Forgive me, Mr. Rosenthal. I’ll ask someone else.”
“No, no. It’s okay.” Rosenthal tried to smile but could not. “It’s okay,” he repeated and wiped vomitous residue from the sides of his mouth. “I was just a bit … unprepared.”
Rosenthal raised his head and looked at the body again. The sick feeling returned, but this time he held it at bay.
“It’s gotta be him,” Rosenthal whispered, looking at Sutton’s perfect match.
Patrick nodded. “I kinda thought it was. I mean, who else could it be? I knew you’d know, Mr. Rosenthal. I don’t know what happened to the other eye, but it looks like somebody beat it out o’ his head. You ever seen a head so bloated and bruised?”
To Rosenthal, Patrick’s words were mere gibberish. He kept marveling that men, real human beings, could beat a child’s eye right out of its socket. Even when he assaulted Sutton Griggs, Jr. at Harvard years earlier, he would never have dreamed, he convinced himself, of beating a human being that severely. Racist white men are monsters, he thought.
“Who you think did it?” Patrick asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Rosenthal lied. “But it’s gotta be somebody really sick.”
“Yeah, I know. Look at how big his head is! It looks like a black-and-blue balloon.”
“Dear God,” Rosenthal cried pitifully, with his left hand over his mouth. He thought about Sutton, resting peacefully in his pocket, and he decided to keep the secret to himself. He studied the corpse, this time noticing the excessively swollen lips and the wounded nose, crooked and flattened by some really heavy instrument. In his mind’s eye, Rosenthal saw the sheriff and other half-drunk white men in overalls beating the boy like farmers threshing wheat.
