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***
Chapter 3
Last autumn's dead leaves crunched under their feet as Clifton followed his father through the woods. The spring day was warm, one of the first since winter had officially ended a few days before. He kept his eyes focused on the leather heels of his father's work boots as he shuffled along the faint trail. From time to time, a thorny hand of greenbrier tried to grab his flannel, but other than that, the walking was flat and easy. Occasionally, when he would look up, glimmers of the New river reflected through the trunks of the oaks, sycamores, and scrubby white pines. Behind him, if the trees hadn't been in the way, he would have been able to see the rounded peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains surrounding the valley.
Mr. Carlson had woken Clifton early on that Saturday morning. Clifton was confused and still half asleep when his
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father had said, "Come on, lazy bones. We're going for a hike. Your mama's already packed us sandwiches." Clifton had gotten dressed, brushed his teeth, and had barely downed a piece of toast before his father pushed him out the door. Mr. Carlson had a knapsack slung over his shoulders that held their food and water for the outing, and it swayed from side to side as they left their house on the corner and crossed Kamron Street--a street that during the week was dangerously busy and crowded with logging trucks and mill traffic. But on this Saturday morning, things on Kamron Street were slow. They quickly crossed and left their neighborhood.
Within minutes, they were walking down a calm residential road that was lined on both sides with big brick homes and perfectly manicured lawns. A fancy sign at the entrance to the neighborhood read windswept hills . Somehow, the grass was already green and cut uniformly to match that of each neighbor's. Patches of crocus had popped their heads from thickly mulched beds, and tall stalks of unbloomed daffodils reached toward the sun, ready to open at any moment. A trio of Mexican men worked like bees as they scurried across one lawn in particular, setting up sprinklers and spreading fertilizer, which ruined the otherwise fine spring smell of the morning. Clifton couldn't help but think of his own scraggly lawn back home, only a few blocks away, which was still brown and dormant.
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At the entrances to some of the twisty driveways stood concrete statues of lions or sleek racing dogs sitting atop pillars. The difference between the neighborhood on this side of Kamron Street and his own was striking. As Clifton walked alongside Mr. Carlson, with the top of his head barely reaching his father's bellybutton, he looked to the far side of the street to see a man getting a newspaper from his mailbox. The man wore a short-sleeve collared shirt with a tiny alligator or lizard--Clifton couldn't tell which--attached in the exact same spot that his father had Jim stitched in cursive on his blue factory shirt. His pants were red and white and looked as if they'd been fashioned from a picnic tablecloth. His arms and neck were bright pink as if he'd recently spent too much time on the golf course, and a circle of burned skin on the top of his head contrasted sharply with the horseshoe of white hair surrounding it. The man had the paper halfway out of the box when he noticed them approaching. He turned to stare at the two pairs of boots clomping along the asphalt. Mr. Carlson nodded at the man and said, "Howdy." Clifton mimicked his father with a smile and said the same. The man scanned Mr. Carlson's worn jeans and factory shirt for a second, looked at the boy at his side, then pulled out the paper nervously and headed back up his driveway without a word.
Clifton suddenly felt uncomfortable. When they'd distanced themselves from the driveway, Mr. Carlson said with
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a hint of disdain, "The folks that live over here are the big boys, little man. Most of em don't even work in Crocket's Mill. They're bigwigs that have fancy jobs in Samford but moved over here to get away from the city. But I was living in Crocket's Mill long before any of these houses were even built. When we were boys, we'd tromp through here when it was nothing but woods on our way to the Palisades. To jump off the rocks."
Clifton looked back to sneak another peek at the man. From the safety of his front porch, the man stared back at them with guarded suspicion. Though Clifton was still too young to understand why, he was perceptive enough to recognize that Kamron Street divided the two sides of Crocket's Mill as perfectly as a sharp blade through a ripe orange.
"Daddy, how come we're going to the woods this way?" he asked when they reached the end of the road. They were faced with a thick stand of trees along the bowled edge of a cul-de-sac. A trail eerily disappeared into the darkness of the woods. "Seems like it would've been easier if we'd just gone through town. I don't like it over here on this side."
Mr. Carlson kicked at the stone curb with the bottom of his boot and smiled as he looked down at his son. "Wanted to shake things up a little today, boy. Got something I wanna show you. And we can't get to it by going through town. Have to go through Mr. White Man's neighborhood to get to the Killing Pit." Mr. Carlson turned away and looked into the tall
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grove of poplars that stood like a platoon of skinny soldiers waiting for orders.
The Killing Pit. The name thrilled and haunted Clifton at the same time. He turned around and looked at the neighborhood behind him and then again into the depths of the foreboding woods. Just as the rich man's bald spot had contrasted sharply with the white of his hair, the fancy houses were doing the same thing in opposition to the backdrop of the menacing trees. And while the line of distant mountain ridges behind the houses took on a peaceful blue hue, a chill prickled Clifton's arms despite the warmth of the sunshine. "The what?"
"The Killing Pit," said Mr. Carlson. The smile had dissipated and his tone had gone stern. "It's something I want you to see. My own daddy took me to it when I was about your age, and I didn't never forget it. Now it's your turn."
The chill stayed with Clifton, and he felt nerves begin swirling in his stomach, mixing and churning. Something about that name, and his father's behavior, made him want to turn back.
"Come on, let's go. It's barely half a mile." His father stepped over the curb and was swallowed up by the darkness of the forest in a matter of seconds. Clifton hesitated for only a moment, then realizing he was all alone, darted into the trees to catch up.
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***
AS they ventured deeper into the woods, the only thing he saw around him were trees. Lots of trees. Whereas earlier, when the leaves had noisily shuffled around their feet, now the ground was covered with a soft blanket of dead pine needles that made the walking silent. In fact, everything was silent. No birds chirped, no squirrels bounded from branch to branch, the wind didn't even stir. And it was dark. Here and there, a column of sunshine worked its way through the canopy and shined a spot of light on the ground, but for the most part the branches and limbs had laced their twisted, gnarled fingers together to form a natural blockade. He stayed directly behind his father but would have preferred to have walked right next to him. The narrow path, however, didn't present that option.
After fifteen minutes of walking (the whole time of which his father never uttered a word) they finally stopped. He looked around to see why this particular spot was more significant than any other, but he couldn't distinguish anything out of the ordinary. But then he noticed a faint path that branched off the main one.
"Right over there is the Killing Pit," whispered Mr. Carlson. He squatted down so he was eye-level with his son. He took a sip from the canteen in the knapsack and handed it
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over. As Clifton took a drink, Mr. Carlson pointed to his right and whispered again. "Not too many people even know it's here. You see it?"
Clifton peered into the dankness of the woods. He didn't know why his father was whispering, but for some reason it made everything seem even creepier. More serious. Clifton whispered back, "No, sir. I don't see it."
"Look closer. See that dark circle over there by that stand of rhododendron?"
Clifton squinted even though his vision was perfect. At first, he still d
idn't see anything. But then, about fifty yards away, he did see something just above the ground that was circular in shape. The waxy green leaves of the rhododendron seemed to be protecting it. At first he'd thought it was just a pile of rotting logs, but now he realized that it was man-made. He nodded. "Yes, sir--I see it."
"That's the Killing Pit. If we went straight on down the main path, that'd bring us out by the Palisades. You know, those big rocks along the river I was telling you about that I used to jump from. But this way," he said, motioning with his head, "takes you to the Killing Pit. Come on, let's go take a look."
Clifton followed his father as they traipsed across the pine needles, their boots kicking and dismembering mushrooms from the damp earth as they went. A moist, earthy smell, an
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odor that could be found only in the deep woods, filled Clifton's head. He could almost taste the pine needles that seemed to be simmering with the warmth of spring. They were now following the fainter path, something that resembled an abandoned deer trail. When they reached the Killing Pit, Mr. Carlson stopped, though the trail kept on going.
"Where does this path go to?" asked Clifton as he stopped next to his father. He hadn't yet looked at the Killing Pit to his left.
"You don't want to go any farther than this. There's a little dirt road once you start heading down the hill. Then, if you cross it, there are a few scattered houses near the banks of the river. But you don't have no business going down in there." He then put his foot on the edge of the circular rock wall, which was about two feet tall and approximately twelve feet in circumference. It reminded him of an old well that he'd seen in a nursery rhyme book his mother used to read to him, except there was no bucket or crank above the hole. The stones were stacked neatly atop one another and covered in a slick green slime. When Clifton rested his foot on the edge, imitating his father, the sole of his shoe slipped right off.
"Careful, there, little man. That's about the last place you want to fall."
Clifton looked down into the black hole and at first saw nothing but darkness. They dropped to their knees on the
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forest floor and rested their hands atop the slippery rocks as they peered into the maw. After a few seconds of staring, Clifton's eyes readjusted. About twenty feet down, though it was nearly impossible to judge distance, he was suddenly able to make out a patch of blue sky sitting at the bottom. And then, when he moved his head, he saw the blurry reflections of both him and his father. Depending on how he focused his eyes, he could also see a layer of decaying leaves below the surface of the water.
"Here," said Mr. Carlson, holding a rock in his hand. "Drop this down there."
He grabbed the rock, no bigger than a tennis ball, and let it fall. The stone smashed his reflection, and a hollow kerplunk echoed its way up the shaft. The heads of Clifton and his father fractured into hundreds of tinier versions as the water rippled and splashed off the sides of the retaining walls. An acrid smell, like something from the bowels of a septic tank, drifted up and settled on the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat.
"What is this place?" He kept his eyes trained on the water as things slowly returned to calm. He could barely make out the rock resting on the bed of rotting leaves. "An old well or something?"
"No, this ain't no well. It's the Killing Pit. Back in the day, back during slave times, white men would sometimes bring a
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couple of slaves here. Even though slavery wasn't too bad in this part of Virginia, not like in the Tidewater or down in the deep South, it was still around. In fact , there's a grave on the other side of Samford, out in the country, where a slave owner was buried standing up because he said he wanted to watch over his slaves even after he died. But that's another story. With the Killing Pit, what they'd do is drop a rope ladder and then two slaves climbed down into it. Then they were forced to fight each other while the white men stood around and watched. They'd make bets on who would win. It was like a big party for them."
Clifton looked at his father and then back down into the pit. The walls were lined from top to bottom with moss and lichen-covered stones. Cobwebs clung to the sides, and thin-papered egg sacs hung lifelessly from the ends like shriveled balloons on weathered strings. Creeping vines snaked their way into crevices, their curled tendrils taking hold wherever they could.
"How did they know who won?" He tried to imagine two dark bodies slopping around down there, punching and pounding on each other, probably up to their knees in tannic rain water.
His father looked him squarely in the eye. The tight muscles along his jaw line twitched. The rims of his wide nostrils flared like a horse's, almost imperceptibly, as he repeated his
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son's words. "How did they know who won? Well, it's kind of like chess." Mr. Carlson had started teaching Clifton how to play chess when he was only four years old. His father wasn't necessarily book-smart, but when it came to a chessboard, he was a professor. Clifton felt pretty sure that his father, no matter what the topic of conversation, could somehow manage to tie chess into it. "In chess, only one man can win."
"Unless there's a stalemate," said Clifton proudly, trying to show off his knowledge. And also to ease the tension in the air.
"Yeah, but there weren't any stalemates in this game," said Mr. Carlson. The way he said it, the darkness of his tone, set the fine hairs of Clifton's arms on end. "Only checkmates. And in this case, the black side always lost."
"What do you mean?"
"When one man killed the other, Clifton. It was a fight to the death. The ladder wasn't lowered back down until they were sure that one of the men was dead."
Clifton felt another shiver pass through his body. Could he really be standing over a hole where men had once killed each other? He still didn't quite grasp the situation. "Why? Did the slave men not like each other?"
Mr. Carlson's face didn't change. It was as cold, as hard, as untelling as the rocks lining the pit. "No, boy, they might've liked each other just fine. But they liked life better, I reckon,
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so they had to do something unthinkable if they wanted to keep on living it. I've even heard stories of brothers having to fight each other down there. Those were bad times."
Clifton felt himself getting nervous and uncomfortable. He wanted to get out of the woods and back to the warmth of the sunshine. Back to the safety of his home and neighborhood. "They don't... I mean ... they don't do that anymore, do they? White men don't come here anymore, right?"
Mr. Carlson, for the first time, looked away as if thinking deeply about something. He seemed to be staring farther down the faint path toward the hidden houses on the riverbank. "No, not anymore," he said. "Well, not exactly, anyway."
Clifton wanted to ask him what he meant, but somehow he sensed that his father wouldn't offer up an explanation. So instead, he picked a few acorns off the mattress of leaves and pine needles and dropped them, one by one, into the pit.
His father pulled out a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it. The smell of the smoke comforted Clifton. After a moment of silence, his father continued. "When my daddy first took me here, I was about your age. It was a different time than it is now, but it ain't all that much different. Daddy brought me here to make me understand the struggles that black people have had to overcome. He wanted me to see how you gotta fight every day of your life. Now don't get me
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wrong--things are better than they used to be. Way better. But it ain't perfect. And for you, little man, it's always gonna be a fight."
Clifton swallowed hard. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home to the security of his mother's arms.
"See, it was tough for me, but it'll be even tougher for you." Mr. Carlson paused as if he didn't want to continue. "You know why?"
Clifton shook his head.
"Because you got a white mama and a black daddy--that's why," said Mr. Carlson. He kept grabbing clusters of dead pine needles and strippin
g them apart as he spoke, the cigarette knuckled in his right hand. "Ain't nothing gonna come easy for you. Now, your mama didn't want me to bring all this up. Begged me not to. But it's important. You gotta know this stuff. And the earlier, the better. Life ain't always fair, and for some it's more unfair than for others. It wasn't fair for the two slaves who had to fight each other while people stood above them, drinking whiskey and betting money on one or the other like they was a couple of banty roosters or wild dogs. You got me?"
Clifton nodded but he didn't really understand. That is, he understood what his father was saying, but he didn't understand how other human beings could have been so cruel and callous.
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"Life's just like this Killing Pit here, boy. We all start at the bottom of it and then have to do all we can to fight our way out. And at any moment, even when things seem to be going fine, we can slip and fall right back down to the bottom. You remember that, okay? You keep this day in the back of your mind, just like I did after my daddy took me here. Always do the right thing, be kind and helpful. Don't ever slip down to the level of those men who once stood around this pit, watching others kill like it was a sport or something. But at the same time, don't ever forget that you always gotta fight. You got me?"
Clifton nodded again.
"They say if you dig through the rotting sludge down there, you'll find layers of old bones and skulls."
Finally, Clifton spoke. "Can we go home? You're scaring me, Dad."
Mr. Carlson stood up and started to flick his cigarette down the shaft. But then he hesitated as if he'd just thought of something important. He stubbed it out on the moist slime of the wall instead, where the tip sizzled like sweat on a hot muffler. He then flipped the butt into a copse of ferns that wiggled and danced in a nonexistent breeze.
Gray baby: a novel Page 3
