Fairbairn, Ann

by Five Smooth Stones

  He reached that part of his talk about the only powerful Negro—the only Negro with real ability to influence the destiny of his people—being the voting Negro, but instead of making it the climax, as it had always been, he let it become a part of the preclimax buildup, and moved to the front of the platform.

  "These things are important," he said. "These things that I have said." He knew the value of repetition when he spoke to his people, knew it to be the secret of his people's eloquence, the repetition of a phrase like the background beat of a drum lending rhythm to thought, making the subject matter of a speech a thing of the senses as well as the mind. "All the things that we have done are important, the boycotts, such as the one that brought about a victory for our people in Montgomery, the freedom rides, the demonstrations, the sit-ins, the pray-ins, all have left their mark. But what we have done is only a tiny shadow of what we will do, as, it has been said, the child is the shadow of the man. As we sit here today there are towns all over the South in which no Negro has ever entered a voting booth, towns in which Negroes still dare not walk on the white side of the street, towns from which Negroes still vanish, to be found, later, dead. That's how short a distance our shadow reaches."

  David slipped one hand into a trouser pocket, smiled and gathered in the audience with the smile, not with intent but because in that moment its members had become real and close to him. His voice strengthened, lost its strained and thready quality.

  "This morning," he said, "I was a man with a different mission than I have now. This morning I was making plans to leave the South, at least for a time, hide myself in a quiet office, behind a thick door, in our national headquarters in Boston. I would have been doing what I was trained to do: wrassling with the law, instead of with a red-neck bully."

  They were listening intently, now that he had brought the talk down to a personal level.

  "I have no shame," he continued, "for claiming on this day the prerogative of a woman. I have changed my mind. Tomorrow I win leave here for a town, or call it a small city, northeast of us, a town such as I mentioned a moment ago. There are others there before me, white and colored, working for our cause. I shall walk on the colored side of the street, live in the colored section of town, and pray that I don't vanish in the night. And perhaps when we leave that town we will leave behind us Negroes less afraid, Negroes walking with their heads up.

  "What changed my mind? It happened here, right on this picnic ground. A little crippled boy told me how he wanted more than anything in the world to go, not to the circus or a ball game or the movies, but to go to Washington and march with his daddy later this month; march in a wheelchair if need be. And when I asked him why, he told me. He wanted to march, he said, and I will use his own words, 'so little colored children everywhere could live the same as everyone else,' so his daddy could get a good job, and so his mother need never be afraid of losing hers because she wanted to march for freedom for her family.

  "And I realized then, as I had not realized before, that we have already accomplished a great and wonderful thing: a thing far greater than the right to eat in a white restaurant, greater than the right to ride in the front of the bus, greater than the right to worship God in a church in which He is a stranger. And it is so simple, so very simple, this accomplishment. It is. this: We have made a lie out of what was once a statement of fact. We have changed the world we live in so that no child of our people need ever hear the words I heard as a child, the words your parents and your grandparents heard, the words that were the shackles of their minds: 'There ain't nothing you can do about it.' No dark-skinned child, hurt and humiliated, can look with tear-filled eyes into the face of an elder, and hear again those bitter words of oppression and defeat: 'There ain't nothing you can do about it.'

  "That's why I'm staying in the front lines, leaving tomorrow for Cainsville instead of Boston, so that no child will ever hear those bitter words again. No child will ever hear those bitter words again: "There ain't nothing you can do about it.' We've proved them a lie. Let's keep them a lie!"

  ***

  Luke was waiting for him at the foot of the platform steps, his smile wide. David knew the smile had been on Luke's face, and in his mind, ever since the boy had heard the words, "I have changed my mind." There was no exuberance; it was as though David's speech had made him shy.

  "Hi, boss." He spoke softly. "That was great. That was real great, man. Look, you weren't kidding? I mean when you said about going to Cainsville?"

  "I wasn't kidding." David felt tiredness sucking at the very marrow of his bones. "Maybe you're all nuts, but it's worth a try. Christ! Anything's worth a try."

  They were walking slowly across the grass to the roadway where David's car was parked. He looked for Billy, saw the child beneath a tree with a woman who must be his grandmother.

  "Where you going now, boss?"

  "Home," he said. "Home, and see if I can get some rest in what little time there is left for it."

  CHAPTER 71

  There was no difficulty in recognizing the land Brad had described as the Towers holdings. There was the broad, more or less flat, expanse known as—what had Brad said the people called it? Flaming Meadows?—and beyond it on the north the sharp high rise of a rocky, wooded hill. David pulled over to the shoulder of the rutted road and when he turned off the car's motor heard the cool sound of the wide flowing stream that ran along the eastern boundary, and beneath a plank bridge laid across the road just ahead of him, and his ears caught the distant sound of a waterfall, hypnotic in the quiet early-morning heat.

  It was all very peaceful, he thought, very damned peaceful, the kind of peace that in time could cure a man's mind and bring rest to his body. But not to his, not under the circumstances that had brought him here, and now he damned those circumstances heartily. What in hell was wrong with him that he had let a small boy in leg braces crawl inside his mind, pull the strings that governed his actions? "You're not mature, Champlin," he told himself now. "That's it. Thirty years old and not mature." He could do as much in Boston as he could do here—more—and stay healthy in the bargain. But was he going to Boston? Not he, not li'l David Champlin; he was going to stay here because of some little kid he'd never seen before Sunday.

  "Oh, hell, Champlin, go swimmin'!" He spoke aloud, and the sound of his own voice startled him in the hot, close confines of the car.

  He pulled fresh shorts, socks, and cotton undershirt from his zipper overnight bag, took a clean yellow sports shirt and tan slacks from the hanger on the bracket behind him, and crossed the road, working his way through the bracken on the other side and down to the bank of the stream, looking for one of the spots Brad must have meant when he said the swimming was fine if you could handle the current. There was one not too far above the plank bridge, sheltered by a few scrub pine trees and high rank undergrowth, and he stripped and waded in. The water was shockingly cool at first on his sweaty, heated body, and he swam strongly against the current, then rested, floating on his back, letting the water carry him, turning and swimming against it when it threatened to take him too far. None of the baths he had taken in New Orleans in an obsession to wash away the intangible filth of the jail had cleansed him as this cool, clear water was cleansing him now. It was almost worth the trip, he thought, almost worth whatever lay ahead.

  Out of the water he let the sun dry the moisture from his skin, pulled on the clean clothes, and made his way back to the car. He never minded his lameness as much on city streets or hard roads, even going up and down stairs, as he did on rough, uncertain footing like this.

  As he got the car back on the road again, the heat closed in, and he knew that in a few minutes the fresh, clean clothes that had felt so good on cool skin would be moist and sticky with perspiration. He had been able to see the roof of a house on the other side of Angel Creek while he was swimming, and now, just as he crossed the plank bridge, it came into full view. It was a crazy quilt of a house. The oblong central portion must have been the ori
ginal cabin; to this there had been added various rooms, at odd angles. The unrailed, roofed porch that ran across the front of the central portion was almost at ground level, reached by a single step. The curtains at the windows were stiffly starched, as clean and brave looking as the white sails of a catboat. The cushions on the ancient rocking chairs on the porch were gay in clean, bright chintz.

  A house-proud woman lives in there, he thought, then saw her at the side, in the rear, wearing an ankle-length blue cotton dress, and carrying a pail, walking slowly toward a cluster of outbuildings that flanked the barnyard area in back. A building near the road, approached by a driveway wider than the road itself, had a weather-beaten sign over its double doors: towers wil-sav-u garage. He noticed that both house and garage had telephone and electricity, and he was almost sure there was indoor plumbing.

  Brad had told him that with apologies to a long-dead essayist they named their headquarters building "Tether's End," and it came in sight a little more than a mile past the Towers house, on the left side of the road as it approached the town, recognizable by the number of cars parked around it, Brad's among them.

  The building was frame, rickety, and only a few flakes of paint remained on its exterior. The porch and the three steps that led to it were sagging, but there were telephone and electricity lines and, gleaming incongruously, new screens at the windows and a new screen door. Brad, to whom mosquitoes were more than ordinary torment, would have done that.

  The figures inside the house were only barely distinguishable through the screen door. He could hear voices and the whirring of an electric fan. From the back a voice that sounded like Chuck Martin's called loudly, "Hey! Somebody! Soap!"

  Without knocking he opened the door and walked in, checking its close with a hand behind him because his nerves shrank from the idea of a loud bang. Humboldt Sweeton was standing facing him; Brad and Fred Winters were seated in battered wicker chairs, their backs to the door. Sweeton recognized him immediately, came forward with outstretched hand. "Well, Lord, Lord! If it ain't young David Champlin!" Away from the pulpit or platform his voice was low, close to a semiwhisper. My God, the man's tired, thought David; my God, he looks like hell. The great black eyes were even more sunken than they had been the time David had seen him in a Montgomery church hall; the bones of face and skull gave an effect of almost gleaming white through the dark skin. A slow smile put light into the deep pools of his eyes.

  Brad had risen to his feet, saying softly, "I'll be damned, brat," the warm pleasure evident in his voice.

  Winters, looking as trim and tailored as though Madison Avenue ran past their door instead of a red dirt southern road, smiled and said with obvious sincerity, "Good to see you, David."

  "Beats me how you do it, Fred," said David. "For two dollars, Confederate, I'd muss you up." He remembered the time, a year or so before, when Winters had been jailed after considerable maneuvering by himself and members of his own group, who were concerned by the criticism within their ranks that the big shots managed to stay out of the reach of local law-enforcement bodies, that only the smaller fry and the locals took the raps. Three days later, when Fred was released, he had emerged, to David's envious surprise, looking as dapper and unruffled coming out the door as he had looked going in.

  In an alcove kitchen at the side of the far end of the room he saw Les Forsyte, who came forward now to shake hands, the smooth tan face and round eyes looking as youthful as they had the first time David met him, years before, in New York.

  Hummer Sweeton said, "Get the boy some lemonade, Les; reckon he's pretty warm. You been driving all night, son?"

  "Nope," answered David. "Just two, three hours. Stayed at a motel the other side of Heliopolis. But you better believe I drove around the edges of that town. I don't need a rest all that bad."

  Hummer took the lemonade from Les's hand, gave it to David, and fussed and clucked-clucked like a mother hen. "Going to jail for the cause is one thing; staying in it, that's something else again. Sit down, son; res' yo'self."

  "Look—" said David, and stopped abruptly. Had anyone noticed the quaver in his voice? Brad had; he could not see Brad from where he was sitting, but he sensed Brad had noticed. "Good lemonade," he said, and drank deeply. What in the name of God did a grown man do when he found himself suddenly afflicted with the nervous system of a menopausal female? Get busy, he thought; get busy right now, beat it down, give it something to do; get busy, get busy—

  "Hi ya, Stoopid!" Chuck Martin came pounding into the room from somewhere outside the kitchen, probably a lean-to, makeshift shower, David thought. The big bony frame was wrapped in a gray, knee-length seersucker robe, the bony shanks ending in bony feet wearing scuffs, the tow-colored hair standing upright in wet spikes. The warmth of Chuck's greeting and his wide-eyed, paternal concern almost embarrassed David. Chuck said, "Brad tells me you're a mite peaked." He looked more closely. "You seem O.K. to me, Stoopid." But his voice was without conviction and held an undertone of worry.

  "Had breakfast, David?" Brad spoke quietly from behind him.

  "Hell, no. Where'd you think I'd get breakfast? One of those white restaurants outside of Helio? Didn't look clean to me."

  "Our vines grow sour grapes," said Winters. Les Forsyte headed for the kitchen, calling out, "One breakfast coming up! Grits, eggs, ham, corn bread—"

  "You do yourselves damned well," said David.

  "High on the hawg, son; high on the hawg." Hummer's smile had not left his face.

  Brad said, "And everything home produced. Everything. My first experience. I don't behove we've even got a can opener in the joint."

  "Bottle opener," said Winters. "The whites have the cornlikker monopoly. The still's in the hills on the other side of town."

  Les Forsyte, busy in the kitchen, began to sing, improvising as he went along: "O-o-oh, the still's in the hills on the other side of town—" and David took the lead away from him, began singing the old song "I'm Movin' to the Outskirts of Town—" and Brad said, "Careful. Clergy present; take it easy." For no reason they all laughed, and David felt less like a menopausal female, more like a breakfastless male in sight of food after a sixty-mile drive and a swim in the early morning.

  ***

  Chuck joined him at a card table that seemed to serve many purposes. While they waited for Les to bring breakfast, Brad said: "You know how damned glad I am that you're here, David. But I also disapprove strongly. You should have gone on to Boston. How come you changed your mind?"

  David shrugged. "Call it the equivalent of your girl on the bench in Little Rock."

  "Damn it, David, there isn't a mule in this state that can beat you for stubbornness and obstinacy when you want to be stubborn and obstinate. And there isn't a woman living who can beat you for changing your mind if your emotions get involved. Keeps a man guessing."

  "It has its advantages," said David. "Anyhow, I thought an outside viewpoint, on the spot, even if it's a skeptical one, would be helpful."

  "It will," said Brad. "Believe me, it will."

  Chuck, busy now with ham and eggs, said, "We'd better, brief you. I'm not supposed to be here. I don't mean in Cainsville; I mean on this side of Main Street." He looked speculatively at the plate of hot corn bread, took his third piece and spread it liberally with butter. "Ol' Miz Towers's butter. Hand churned by long-suffering great-grandchildren. Where was I? Oh, yes. This side of Main Street is, always has been, verboten to whites except those on business or errands Of mercy to old-time servants. You get the picture."

  "Without trying."

  "Now the ban is even stricter, although, of course, it's not a legal one. They're beginning to smell something. I get here by devious routes, sneaking out the back door of the bus station across from the Grand, or I drive either north or south of town, make a swing around the side roads and come in the back way, the way you came this morning."

  "For me it comes naturally. Back doors, back roads."

  "All right. We're not kidding ourselves th
at the whites don't know about it. Hummer, you want to take over?"

  "You're doing fine, Reverend, doing fine. You make a mistake, I'll stop you. You just keep a-going while I rests my voice."

  "I don't know whether Brad told you, but we were planning one, perhaps two, demonstrations."

  "Red herrings, as I understand it."

  "Yes. Aimed, of course, at voter registration. But we want to keep them within the law. Not as a matter of principle but as a matter of expediency. Too much friction, any violence, could throw a monkey wrench in our more important project."

  "A guy sitting in a jail cell saying he won't work isn't as effective as a man sitting on his porch saying the same thing."

  "You still catch on quickly, don't you? Now, there's considerable profanity called for in this next bit, and I ought to let Brad or Fred take over, but I'll keep on and try and restrain myself. Day before yesterday, Sunday, there was a wildcat demonstration. It was just after sundown, close to dark. A torchlight parade, a 'Light of Freedom' parade, according to the placards."

  "Wait," said David. "Wait, Chuck." A little crippled boy named Billy was a long way off now, and he was kicking himself mentally for ever having changed his plans to go to Boston. He was sure he knew what was coming. "YPCF? Mostly kids?"

  "Nothing but. The dear, dedicated Young People's Committee for Freedom."

  "Oh, God!" said David. "Why didn't I stay in bed!"

  "I reckon it's because basically you haven't got good sense. Anyhow—"

  "Chuck." Brad was walking back from the kitchen to the table, a cup of fresh coffee in his hand. "Let me pick it up here for a while. You see, David, we have no right to feel too angry. In a large measure it was our own damned fault. Hummer has had to be away every now and then, frying other fish—"