Ahead, a group of children were plodding up a hill that rose from the roadway across from the entrance to the campus, dragging sleds behind them. "Those kids are rushing the season," said Suds. "There's not enough snow yet for real good coasting." He turned to David. "Know what a Flexible Flyer is?"
"A rubber airplane?"
"Gosh! You're not even high enough up to be in the ignorant class. It's a sled. We used to get 'em for Christmas presents, under the tree, taking up all the room. We couldn't wait to get out on 'em and do belly bumpuses—"
"Do what, for gosh sakes?"
"Of all the wasted childhoods! That's what I call really underprivileged. No snow, no belly bumpuses—see those kids up there? They'll be doing belly bumpuses in a minute."
David watched, then grinned. "They aren't all kids. One of 'em's Sara Kent."
"Yeah?.... Damned if it isn't. Same difference."
While they stood there, Sara reached the bottom of the low hill flat on her stomach on a child's sled, then got to her feet, waving to the children at the top of the hill. One of them picked up a sled, ran forward a few steps, then flung sled and self forward and coasted down to her. The child took her sled from her, and she started toward the roadway. Sudsy took off a woolen glove, put two fingers in his mouth, and a shrill whistle sliced through the raw air.
Sara was running now, red cap and sweater bright against the white background, waving, calling to them as she ran. "Hey! Wait! Wait you guys! Wait for me!"
When she reached them, panting, cheeks flushed, Suds said: "Wait for you, girl? No point waiting for you. You'll catch up."
She did not answer, stood looking up at David as a child looks up at mother or father, ignoring outsiders.
"David, I'll bet you've never been coasting. I'll bet you've never done a belly bumpus on a Flexible Flyer. I'll bet you don't even know what a Flexible Flyer—"
"It's a sled. Yaa-ah, there…"
"You've been cheating, Champlin."
She tucked a mittened hand under his arm.
"Let's get coffee and hot dogs in the rec hall."
He wanted to pull away from her hand, to say, "Look— please—" and at the same time wanted to put his own hand over hers and draw her closer. Hell of a fix, he thought; hell of a fix I'm in. There were plenty of guys, he knew, who wouldn't be in any fix, who'd do something about it, wouldn't hold back, but knowing that didn't make it any more possible for him to act differently.
She was speaking again. "David. Listen, will you please come down to earth and just listen. Because I've got news. Have you talked to Tommy Evans?"
"Not since yesterday."
"He's looking for you."
"What'd I do?"
"Nothing, Stoopid. I mean, it's what you're going to do. Maybe. If you want to. It's the super answer to a problem."
What problem? he wondered. There wasn't any answer to the problem that confronted him whenever Sara Kent was near, or even when she wasn't, no "super" answer to that problem, not for David Champlin, and now it was the only problem in his mind, all others were forgotten—scholastic, economic, whatever—and there was only this problem with its knife-sharp edges, its hurting weight.
Sara was saying: "You wait. You'll find out. I won't say a word, just let him tell you. I think he's in there now."
Suds groaned. "Women! Drive a man nuts."
They found Tom Evans and Chuck Martin in the billiard room, bought coffee and hot dogs, and commandeered the fireplace in the little room off the main lounge. Then Tom said, "Listen, David. You got a job yet?"
David did not even try to hide a smile. Tom Evans looked so much like some damned kid, mustard on his face, solemn and earnest as all hell. But he evaded a direct answer, and was put out with himself for evading it. There was nothing wrong, absolutely nothing wrong, with working on a laundry truck. He hadn't minded telling Suds. It was better than waiting on table like a lot of the guys, white ones at that, yet he answered only, "Could be. Why?"
"Know the Calico Cat in Cinci? Piano bar."
"I've heard of it." Didn't Tom know the place was Crow?
"I know what you're thinking. But I had to tell you. The piano player, a cat named Chick Sands, is leaving. In fact, he's already left."
"I heard he might, but not this soon. I met him a couple of weekends ago at Nehemiah's uncle's house. He plays a lot of piano."
"No more than you."
"Oh, for gosh sake, Tom! He's ten, fifteen years older than I am. Maybe more. I mean, he's good, man. I mean, he can really play."
"All right, all right. But the guy that owns the Calico Cat wants to audition you. Tuesday—that's tomorrow—afternoon, if you can make it. I mean, it's the only place in town for that kind of music now. And that's only Fridays and Saturdays. Dear old Cinci and its blue laws. Everyplace else is progressive or bop, or a band and dancing. They get a big crowd weekends from all over, people who like the regular stuff."
"How'd he hear about me? Who told him?"
Tom grinned. "Some of the students from here. And Chick Sands himself. Nehemiah says his uncle can get you fixed up quick with the union, and an I.D. card's no problem. Except for me, damn it."
When David didn't answer Tom went on. "This character runs a quiet joint; the law doesn't get around there much. Too busy at the other spots. You could get away with the age bit."
David carefully inspected the remaining one-third of his hot dog on a bun, keeping his eyes from the others, knowing his look would reflect the sudden upsurge of resentment, making his face feel hot. All arranged, wrapped in a package, and handed to him as though he were a helpless fool; no waiting to tip him off that the job was available now, along with a suggestion that he go see the man. He didn't resent Sands's action; that was O.K., that was swell, one musician giving another, younger, musician a boost, letting him have a crack at a job he was quitting. One Negro helping another Negro over a rough spot maybe, but Sands wasn't the kind to do that if he didn't think the other cat could cut it; that would be a black mark against himself if he ever wanted to come back. But these guys, well meaning as hell, finding out about the union from Nehemiah, getting the appointment for the audition, taking it all into their own hands—white hands—making it easy for him because—why? Because he was a Negro, their "favorite Negro," or because he was their friend? He hadn't expected it from Tom or Chuck, had thought both of them possessed of more understanding. The paucity of their understanding was made even clearer when Tom said, "Look, David, I know it's a lousy Crow joint—" Was that why they thought he'd fallen silent? Because the place was Crow? What place wasn't that he could play in? Who else wanted his music these days but the whites, and so few Negroes they wouldn't keep a colored joint in the black for even a weekend?
He turned to Tom and said evenly, "It's Crow. So what?" He felt his anger fade in spite of himself at the troubled perplexity on Tom's face, the perplexity of someone who has hurt another and does not know how, a look that says "Tell me what I've done and I'll go shoot myself if it will help." He couldn't live with these guys—and he had to—if he faulted them for every deed that grew out of their Negro-white relationship; all he could do was ride it out with them, recalling now with a kind of desperation the Prof's words, "You must not see prejudice, which you live with every day in New Orleans, everywhere.... Remember, you are not to see things under the bed. They will not always be there." Centuries of alienation—you couldn't bridge them in a year, but you could make that alienation utter and complete in a minute.
Sara said: "Tommy! I didn't know that was the place. All you told me was that it was a job playing piano. It's Crow as —as Crow can be. They wouldn't serve Simmons one night. None of us, I mean our crowd, will go there. I won't."
David saw the trouble in her eyes, and smiled. "Listen, Sara—" He always wanted to call her "Smallest," wanted to say, "Listen, Smallest—" but instead repeated, "Listen, Sara. A fellow could starve to death, just one guy, waiting for that kind of Crow to die. Now if every piano player—I me
an, every one of us, black and white—was to rare back and refuse to play in a Crow dive, it would do some good."
Tom, obviously relieved, was smiling again. "I know what my old man would do. He's a stinker, Bull Evans is. He'd say take the job, wait till you've built up a real big following, you know, crowd the place every weekend; then if he refused to serve some Negro friend, leave him cold."
Chuck spoke for the first time, drawling: "The mouths of babes, that's what it is. You all listen to ol' Chuck. That's the way it's coming, eventually."
"It's—it's sort of sneaky—" said Sara doubtfully.
"Sure is. Like killing a rattlesnake."
David had now, as he so often had since moving into a new world, the uncomfortable feeling that his mind was outstripping the inhabitants of that world by great leaps, that his mind was taking ten-league strides beyond them. Now he thought of Tom saying "some of the students" had talked up his playing to the owner of the Calico Cat. It hadn't been Tom or Suds or any of the others in what Sara called "our crowd." Sara was right; none of them would spend money in a place if they knew beforehand that it had a Jim Crow policy. So it had to be the other students who had heard him at college, had wanted to keep on hearing him, and hadn't given damn about a Crow policy, those who didn't care about color bars if they could hear what they wanted to hear, or, if it was a restaurant, eat what they wanted to eat. Their recommendation had been based on his music, not his color. And maybe this was good, very good, because Tom or Suds or some of the others would have recommended him if he'd only been able to stumble through "Chopsticks."
He needed the job, that was for sure. He wasn't certain he could cut it, but he could sure as hell try. And it meant no fooling around with his schedule. And that meant no fooling around with Cozy. To be able to keep away from that character was worth damned near anything. He didn't know what scale was for a job like that, but scale plus the kitty, which was sure to be there, ought to equal or better what he'd get driving a laundry truck. Gramp always figured on the kitty supplying a good part of a night's pay—and that was for one member of a trio or maybe a quartet.
He looked at Sara, ignoring the trouble still in her eyes, and said, "You all going to drum me out of ALEC if I take the job? Providing it's offered."
Sara shook her head, but her eyes darkened. "No-o-o. Of course not. Only it's terrible. You playing there and we can —we could—go and hear you and you couldn't. I mean, you couldn't go in if someone else was playing there, and—well, it stinks, that's all."
Chuck Martin said, "He's right, Sara."
"That's crazy."
"Sure it's crazy. And wrong. But David's got no hold on this character. Al Savoldi—that's his name—couldn't care less about hiring a guy he never heard of. David would be biting his own nose off. And David needs the dough. Right, David?"
"Sure."
"So he plays in a Jim Crow club in a border city. And he makes his bread."
David was looking at Sara, and he saw her cheeks flush before she spoke. "You damned Southerners—"
"Whoa, Sara." He leaned forward in his chair. "Chuck's O.K. And he's right. There are other ways to fight, as Tom said. I'll see this Al Whatever-his-name-is tomorrow."
Suds, who had remained in unaccustomed and dubious silence, spoke up. "I'm agin it. How the hell we going to get anywhere, I mean, anywhere, if we don't take a stand—"
David was on his feet. "More coffee? Sara? Chuck? Anyone?" He wanted to move away until this second surge of anger spent itself. Who the hell did they think they were? Even Sara, running his life for him, deciding whether or not he should make money anyway he chose because he needed to take some of the load off a little guy named Li'l Joe Champlin who had gone too far overboard already to help him. Chuck was the only one who knew what the score was. Someday he'd solve the riddle of Chuck Martin. Tom knew the score, but not the way Chuck did; Tom knew it, but had not yet united the knowledge to understanding. Suds didn't seem to know, really know, any score. Suds was just a friendly guy. He either liked you or he didn't like you, without much thought about it. There were no complexities in Sudsy's makeup. If he liked you he didn't like people who disliked you, and he'd go to bat for you. It was that simple.
David came back from the snack bar balancing four cups of coffee and another hot dog for Tom. As he sat down he asked: "You using your car tomorrow afternoon, Suds? Think I could borrow it?"
"I'll take you. Tom and Sara want to go too."
"Stay outside, then." There was no fighting this compulsion to take care of him. The main thing was the job and the money. Again Chuck Martin came to his rescue. "Nuts. He'd better go alone. The owner's going to think it's pressure—"
"Not if we—" Tom stopped speaking suddenly, bit into his hot dog, mumbled, "Yeah. Mebbe you're right."
***
David and Suds called their joint Latin-mathematics coaching plan The Sutherland-Champlin Self-Help Project for Partially Retarded Pengardians, and had decided, after the first month, that it was going to work out fine. David knew he could never give Suds what the Professor had given him, a driving urge to learn Latin, and Suds knew he could not give David what had been inculcated in him—a curiosity about what happens, abstractly, when you move from simple arithmetic to algebra, to geometry, to trig, and so on forward. That had been a bit of magic worked by Benford, which hadn't worked for David. Each knew the other had to have the subject pounded into him, learned by a combination of faith and rote.
That night, following the talk in the recreation hall, Suds said in the middle of a Latin session: "You have real strong objections to my going with you tomorrow? I sort of got the idea you didn't want anyone."
David looked across the card table that was now a fixture in the center of his room, and caught something close to wistfulness on Sudsy's plump face.
"Hell, no. Come on. I just didn't want a whole gang." With Suds it so obviously was not an intent to nursemaid him. Which was one of the reasons, he thought, that he was so fond of Suds. No one had warned him before he came out of New Orleans that some of the whites would have an attitude so damned protective it made a man feel like a fool, increased his divisive race consciousness fully as much as any outright or overt insult. It was as though the color of his skin was like the plaster casts he had worn as a child that had made people want to help him up and down steps he'd rather tackle alone. Suds at least didn't make him feel that way.
On the way to Cincinnati the next afternoon he thought that if the owner of the Calico Cat turned out to be a stinker, well, he was a stinker and that would be that, and the only thing to do about it would be to play the hell out of the piano and stay out of his way. It wasn't anything he could talk about with Suds because this was a roadway in his life not even Suds, much less any of the others, could ever walk with him. To these white kids, stinkers didn't come along very often, and when they did, the kids weren't particularly involved. Hate and fear were bad things they read about in books, or apprehended as forces exterior to themselves.
Crow in the North, what David had seen of it, seemed to him more repugnance than anything else, a drawing away, a man saying, "O.K., O.K., so a squid has nice tender meat— but you still can't pay me to eat it." Except in the industrial areas; there, he always thought, the toughest fight would come because in the industrial centers Crow really was fear, a dollar-and-cents fear that made a black skin not only repugnant but menacing, a threat to full bellies and car payments and mortgages. But Gramp had said, "Hell, a man's got to trust someone. Man can't quit living."
A fellow had to accept the friendship of whites like Tom and Suds and Chuck, but holding back a little because sooner or later there would come a time when the ground on which he was walking would not be the ground on which they were walking and between them there would be a bottomless chasm.
He sighed, turned halfway round in his seat beside Suds, and said, "Hey, Stoopid. How about a little review? Verendus, verenda, verendum—"
"Oh, gosh!" groaned Suds. "They m
ade Simon Legree the wrong color."
***
When he met the owner of the Calico Cat David thought it was too bad you couldn't see the color of his eyes for the dollar signs in them. Small eyes, set close together, a small mouth; a small man, he thought, just a plumb small man in every way. The club, larger than what is usually called a "piano bar," was dim, almost deserted in the hour before cocktail and pre-dinner drink time, with a smell, real or imagined, of last night's smoke and stale drinks. Three men were standing at the bar, drinking; a fourth was sitting on a stool nursing a drink and a protracted hangover. The piano, a baby grand, faced the bar, and small tables lined each wall and were clustered along the center of the room. Suds came in with him but slipped quietly into a chair at a table just inside the entrance.
"You the piano player?" It was the owner's only greeting as he walked toward them from the bar.
What if I'm not? What if I said, "No. I just came in for a drink?" David's hand closed tightly over change in his pocket; he felt the muscles along the back of his shoulders tense and threw his shoulders back, squaring them, easing the tightness.
"Right. You wanted to hear me."
"Yeah. Chick said you were O.K. You know the kind of place this is? If you don't, lemme tell you. We've got a reputation all over the state—all over the Midwest, as far as that's concerned—for barroom piano. Blues, boogie, ragtime. We've had Meade Lux, Johnson, cats like that. Something square now and then for the tourists if they ask for it, but nothing fancy. None of this new stuff. It's O.K., and I like it, but we'd lose our clientele, our regulars. Understand?"
"Yes." David looked at the piano. "Nice instrument."
"See what you can do with it."
David slid along the bench, went through the usual routine motions of a man trying out a piano for the first time, striking A, hitting a B-flat chord, then others. He swung into a boogie, gently at first, muting it, then gradually built it up until he was rocking it, and the man who was sitting at the bar looking like a hung-over mummy began to come to life, and the bartender stopped whatever he had been doing and stood still, listening. Before he went into a blues, David looked down the room at Suds, saw the round face grinning encouragement, and caught the circled thumb and forefinger of approval.
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