* * *
Introduction to
THE INTRUDER by Roger Corman
* * *
I first met Chuck Beaumont when I read his novel, The Intruder, and decided to make a picture of it. His novel concerned the integration of a school in a small southern town, and was critically hailed as a penetrating social study. I contacted Chuck and we discussed it, agreeing as to what we were trying to do. Chuck wanted to see his book brought to the screen exactly as he had written it: "No toning down of the events.., no glossing over the basic attitudes of southern bigots, no whitewashing of the antipathetic Negro who calls himself 'nigger' A deal was signed and Chuck wrote the screenplay. I had never believed in any picture as much as I believed in this one. We shot it on location and Chuck came along to help as production assistant and to play the part of the high school principal; he'd never acted before but was quite good. The picture was done on a very low budget. I had enough money to shoot the film in three weeks on location in Missouri, in 1961, when the situation in the south was considerably different than what it is now, and the racial situation was still very explosive. We chose a town on what is called the "boot-heel" of Missouri, a place which dips down between Arkansas and Kentucky, a town that had a southern look. For the bit parts, I would get local citizens with southern accents but, being in Missouri, the film crew would still be protected by the laws of a midwestern state. The schools in our chosen town had been integrated for six years-but it was token integration. In other schools in the area there was no integration at all and not likely to be any as long as it could be avoided. Arrangements were quickly made with the superintendent of one local school for the rental of facilities, with no mention made of the subject matter of the film. It didn't work out. Some of the people were very friendly, but there was a great deal of opposition; during the climax of the film, when people started to catch on what the movie was really about, we began to have problems. We were to shoot the climax for two days in front of a high school in East Prairie, Missouri. After the first day, the sheriff called us and said we weren't going to be allowed back. I told him we had a contract with the East Prairie school district. He said he didn't care anything about it, that we were communists and we were trying to promote equality between whites and blacks, and that was not going to be allowed in East Prairie; and if anybody came back, they would be immediately arrested. We then started shooting matching shots in a public park in Charleston, Missouri, but after a single morning, the chief of police told us to get out. We were in the middle of shooting one sequence and I said to my brother, Gene, who was working as co-producer, "Talk to him while I finish this sequence." I was shooting as fast as I could and Gene was saying, "Now officer, we don't really understand. Is there anything we can do? Can't we go to the mayor?" The officer was saying, "No. Get the hell out of here." Gene: "Well, there must be some way-" "Get outta here, or I'm running you all in!" And Gene was just talking. Making up conversation. He later told Chuck and me he didn't know what he was saying. He was just talking until I got the last shot-not of the sequence, but of the pattern I had to finish. Toward the end, we were getting threatening phone calls and letters; and so I had to hold a Klu Klux Klan parade until the last night of shooting. Then we left. We didn't even return to the hotel. We had it arranged to leave after shooting, because the threats were very heavy, and we drove in the middle of the night up to St. Louis. Critically, the film was extremely successful; but it was not successful financially. Chuck went on to write more scripts for me. He was intelligent and creative and very sensitive, and, at the same time, highly enthusiastic. He did not get blase after a number of years in Hollywood, as it is easy for a writer to do. Had he lived, he probably would have become a very respected and established screenwriter, who would have written an occasional novel or short story. It's hard to say.
* * *
THE INTRUDER
(Chapter 10) by Charles Beaumont
* * *
When the bell in the steeple rang to mark the half hour that had passed since six P.M., Caxton wore the same tired face that it always wore in the summer. The heat of the afternoon throbbed on. Cars moved up and down George Street like painted turtles, and the people moved slowly, too: all afraid of the motion that would send the perspiration coursing, the heart flying. Adam Cramer sat in the far booth at Joan's Cafe, feeling grateful for the heat, trying to eat the soggy ham sandwich he had ordered. He knew the effect of heat on the emotions of people: Summer had a magic to it, a magic way of frying the nerve ends, boiling the blood, drying the brain. Perhaps it made no sense logically but it was true, nonetheless. Crimes of violence occurred with far greater frequency in hot climates than in cold. You would find more murders, more robberies, more kidnapings, more unrest in the summer than at any other time. It was the season of mischief, the season of slow movements and sudden explosions, the season of violence. Adam looked out at the street, then at the thermometer that hung behind the cash register. He could see the line of red reaching almost to the top. How would The Man on Horseback have fared, he wondered, if it had been twenty below zero? How would Gerald L.K. go over in Alaska? He pulled his sweat-stained shirt away from his body and smiled. Even the weather was helping him! He forced the last of the sandwich down, slid a quarter beneath the plate, and paid for his meal; then he went outside. It was a furnace. A dark, quiet furnace. He started for the courthouse, regretting only that Max Blake could not be there. Seeing his old teacher in the crowd, those dark eyes snapping with angry pleasure, that cynical mouth twitching at the edges-damn! Well, I'll write you about it, he thought. That'll be almost as good. The picture of the man who had set his mind free blurred and vanished and Adam walked faster. The Reverend Lorenzo Niesen was the first to arrive. His felt hat was sodden, the inner band caked with filth; his suspenders hung loosely over his two-dollar striped shirt; his trousers were shapeless-yet he was proud of his appearance, and it was a vicious, thrusting pride. Were someone to hand him a check for five thousand dollars, he would not alter any part of his attire. It was country-honest, as he himself was. Whoever despised dirt despised likewise the common people. God's favorites. Was there soap in Bethlehem? Did the Apostles have nail files and lotions? He sat down on the grass, glared at the bright lights of the Reo motion picture theatre across the street, and began to fan himself with his hat. Little strands of silver hair lifted and fell, lifted and fell, as he fanned. At six thirty-five, Bart Carey and Phillip Dongen appeared. They nodded at Lorenzo and sat down near him. "Well, it's hot." Others drifted into the area, some singly, some in groups. "Hot!" By six forty, over one hundred and fifty residents of Caxton were standing on the cement walk or sitting on the grass, waiting. "You see 'em this morning?" Fifty more showed up in the next ten minutes. "Christ, yes." At seven a bell was struck and a number of cars screeched, halted, discharging teenage children. They crowded at the steps of the courthouse. It was quiet. Ten minutes passed. Then, a young man in a dark suit walked across the empty street. He nodded at the people, made his way through the aisle that parted for him, and climbed to the top step. He stood there with his back to the courthouse door. "That's him?" Phil Dongen whispered. Bart Carey said, "Yeah." Lorenzo Niesen was silent. He studied the young man, trying to decide whether or not he approved. Awful green, he thought. Too good of a clothes on him. Like as not a Northerner. I don't know. The crowd's voice rose to a murmuring, then fell again as the young man in the dark suit lifted his hands in the air. "Folks," he said, in a soft, almost gentle voice, "my name is Adam Cramer. Some of you know me by now and you know what I'm here for. To those I haven't had a chance to talk with yet, let me say this: I'm from Washington D.C., the Capital, and I'm in Caxton to help the people fight the trouble that's come up." He smiled suddenly and took off his coat. "I wish one thing, though," he said. "I wish school started in January. I mean, it is hot. Aren't you hot?" Hesitant, cautious laughter followed. "Well," Adam Cramer said, dropping his smile, "it's going to get hotter, for a whole lot of people. I'll promise you
that. This here little town is going to burn, what I mean; it's going to burn the conscience of the country, now, and put out a light that everyone and everybody will see and feel. This town, I'm talking about. Caxton!" He paused. "People, something happened today. You've all heard about it now. Some of you saw it with your own eyes. What happened was: Twelve Negroes went to the Caxton high school and sat with the white children there. Nobody stopped them, nobody turned them out. And, friends, listen; that makes today the most important day in the history of the South. Why? Because it marks the real beginning of integration. That's right. It's been tried other places, but you know what they're saying? They're saying, Well, if it works in Caxton, it'll work all over, because Caxton is a typical Southern town. If the people don't want integration, they'll do something about it! If they don't do something about it, that means they want it! Two plus two equals four! "Except there's one thing wrong. They're saying you all don't give a darn whether the whites mix with the blacks because you haven't really got down to fighting; but I ask you, how can somebody fight what he doesn't see? They've kept the facts away from you; they've cheated and deceived every one of you, and filled your heads with filthy lies. It has all been a calculated campaign to keep you in the dark, so that when you finally do wake up, Why, we're sorry, it's just too late! "All right; I'm associated with the Society of National American Patriots, which is an organization dedicated to giving the people the truth about desegregation. We've been studying this situation here ever since January, when Judge Silver made his decision, and I'm going to give that situation to you. Of course, many present now are fully aware of it. Many have done what they consider their best to prevent it from happening. But there are quite a few who simply do not know the facts; who don't know either what led up to that black little parade into the school today, or what real significance it has for everyone in the country. "I ask you to bear with me, folks, but I give you fair warning now. When you do know the truth, you're going to be faced with a decision. You don't think you've got one now, but you do, all right, and you'll see it. And it'll get inside your blood and make it boil and you won't be able to run away from it! Because I'm going to show you that the way this country is going to go depends entirely and wholly and completely on you!" Tom McDaniel put away his note-pad and walked over to his friend, the lawyer James Wolfe. Wolfe, he noticed, was staring, strained and curious and expectant, like all the others. And, for some reason, this annoyed him. "Sound familiar?" he said. Wolfe started. "Oh-Tom. Yes, he seems to be a pretty smart kid." "But a phony," Tom said. "Oh?" "Absolutely. The accent's fake; I talked with him earlier. He thinks it's going to work!" "What?" "The plain-folks routine." "And you don't?" Wolfe nodded toward the crowd. "I can't say I entirely agree." "Do you think it's trouble, Jim?" "No," Wolfe said, glancing away from Tom. "The time for trouble's over." "Everything," Adam Cramer was saying, "has got to have a beginning. And the beginning to what you saw today was almost seventeen years ago. In 1940, a Negro woman named Charlotte Green, and her husband, let it be known that they didn't care much for the equal facilities that were being offered to their children. No sooner were the words out of their mouths but the NAACP swooped down. You all know about this organization, I imagine. The so-called National Association for the Advancement of Colored People is now and has always been nothing but a Communist front, headed by a Jew who hates America and doesn't make any bones about it, either. They've always operated on the 'martyr' system, which is: They pick out trouble spots or create them where they never existed, and start putting out publicity. Like take the Emmet Till case. A nigger tries to rape a white woman and tells her husband he'll keep on trying and nobody is going to stop him. The husband can't go to the police with just a threat, so he makes sure, like any of us would, that no nigger is going to rape his wife. Now those are the facts. But what happens? The NAACP moves in and says that the white man is a murderer! Yeah, for protecting his own wife! And you know the bitter tears was shed over that poor, mistreated little colored boy, poor Emmet Till whose only crime was being dark! Any of you read about it?" Adam Cramer shook his head in mock consternation. "The coon was made into a martyr, what they call, and things were rolling along real good, until somebody with some brains showed how Emmet Till's Hero Daddy-you remember how they said that's what he was, and he died in line of duty overseas?-was hanged and given a dishonorable discharge for, see if you can guess it: rape! Uh-huh! Of course, the jury wasn't hoodwinked and declared those men who taught the nigger boy a lesson (and it wasn't ever even proved they'd done anything more!) innocent. But the old N-double-A-C-P almost had it knocked. "Anyway, that's how those guys work. For all I know, they hired this Green woman (she lives on Simon's Hill) to stir things up in the first place. They put the pressure on between 1940 and 1949, pretending that all they wanted, you see, was really equal separate facilities. Farragut County said all right and helped the Negroes send their kids to an accredited school, Lincoln High, in Farragut. I visited this school, friends, and there isn't a thing wrong with it. It's a whole sight cleaner and neater that any place these nigger kids ever saw before, like as not; and that's for sure! But the Commie group tipped its hand right then and showed, for all to see, that it was after something different. Does September 1950 mean anything to you people? Well, it was the second big step toward today. In September 1950 a bunch of Negro boys tried to enroll in Caxton High! Remember?" There was a murmuring from the crowd. "Why?" Adam Cramer asked, modulating his voice to its original softness. "Do you think it was something they thought up by themselves? Would any Southern Negro have that much gall? No, sir. No. The NAACP engineered the whole operation, knowing in advance what would happen! The students were turned away; the county board of education refused to let them in-putting it on the line-and the usual arrangements were made for the Negroes to attend Lincoln. Then, three full months later, five of these kids-with the full backing of the NAACP-filed suit against the Farragut County School Board. And that's when the ball really got rolling. The Plaintiffs, these Negroes, claimed that the out-of-county arrangements didn't meet the county's obligation to furnish equal facilities. The District Court said they were crazy and ruled accordingly. All during 1952 and 1954 the case, which had been appealed, was held in abeyance, pending the United States Supreme Court's action in five school segregation cases under consideration at the same time. "Well, the Commies didn't waste a second. They had most of the world, but America was a pocket of resistance to them. They couldn't attack from outside, so, they were attacking from inside. They knew only too well, friends, that the quickest way to cripple a country is to mongrelize it. So they poured all the millions of dollars the Jews could get for them into this one thing: desegregation. "In August of 1955, the NAACP demanded a final judgment. Judge Silver, who is a Jew and is known to have leftist leanings-" "Who says so?" a voice cried. "The record says so," Adam Cramer said tightly. "Look it up. Abraham Silver belongs, for one thing, to the Quill and Pen Society, which receives its funds indirectly from Moscow." Tom McDaniel grinned. He said to Wolfe, "He'll hang himself!" "You think so?" "Oh, hell, Jim-people love the judge around here. He's a public idol, and you know it. Everybody knows it wasn't his fault about the ruling!" "I'm not so sure." "Well, anyway; the Quill and Pen-that's really stretching it." "I'm not so sure of that, either," James Wolfe said, in a rather grim voice. "Don't forget, Tom: 'You can fool some of the people all of the time…" . . . so what did the Judge do? He instructed the county school board to proceed with reasonable expedition to comply with the rule to desegregate. In spite of the complete disapproval of the PTA, in spite of the protests of the Farragut County Society for Constitutional Government, in spite of petitions presented by Verne Shipman, one of Caxton's leading citizens, and Thomas McDaniel, the editor of the Caxton Messenger-Judge Abe Silver went right ahead and ordered integration for Caxton High School, at a date no later than fall, 1956. "Mayor Harry Satterly could have stopped it, but he didn't have the guts to, because he knew the powers that were and are behind Silver. He kne
w how much his skin was worth. "The Governor could have stopped it in a second, but I don't have to tell you about him; I hope I don't, anyway. "And the principal of the high school, Harley Paton-he could have brought the whole mess to a screaming halt. But he's too lily-livered to do the right thing." "That's a dirty lie!" A young man in a T-shirt and blue jeans walked up to the lower step and glared at Adam Cramer. "The principal done everything he could!" "Did he? Did he close down the school and refuse to open it until the rights of the town were restored?" "No, he didn't do that. But-" "Did he bring the students together and tell them to stay away?" "Hell, he couldn't do that." "No," Adam Cramer said, smiling condescendingly. "No; he couldn't do that. It would take courage. It would mean risking his fine job and that fat pay-check!" The young man bunched his fists, reddened, and when someone shouted, "Git on away, let 'im speak his piece, kid!" walked back into the crowd. "Just a moment," Adam Cramer said. "I know that Harley Paton has a lot of friends. And if I were here for any other purpose than to bring the truth, I'd be smart enough to leave him alone. Wouldn't I? Now I don't say that the principal of Caxton High is necessarily a dishonest man. I merely say, and the facts bring this out, that he is a weak man. And weakness is no more to be tolerated than dishonesty-not when we have our children's future at stake, leastwise! I warned you that the truth would be bitter. It always is. But I ain't going to quit just because I've touched a sore point. No, sir. There's a whole lot of sore points that are going to be touched before I'm through!" "Keep talking," Lorenzo Niesen called. "We're listening." "All right. Now, you may think that the problem is simply whether or not we're going to allow twelve Negroes to go to our school; but that's only a small, small part of it. I'm in a position to know because I've been with an organization that's studied the whole thing. You don't see the forest for the trees, my friends; believe me. The real problem, whether you like it or not, is whether you're going to sit back and let desegregation spread throughout the entire South…" Verne Shipman stood on the sidewalk, hidden behind the rusted lawn cannon, and listened to Adam Cramer. He listened to the same speech he'd heard earlier, the same statistics, and he observed that the people who comprised the crowd were listening also. Intently. Which, of course, they ought to do, for the words made sense. However, there was yet no mention of money. No word about the joining of this organization and the parting with hard-earned funds. I will listen, he thought, but that will be the test. ". . . and it's an indisputable fact," Adam Cramer spoke on, "that there could be no other result. The Negroes will literally, and I do mean literally, control the South. The vote will be theirs. You'll have black mayors and black policemen (like they do in New York and Chicago already) and like as not, a black governor; and black doctors to deliver your babies-if they find the time, that is-and that's the way it'll be. Did you even stop to think about that when you let those twelve enter your white school? Did you?" The miniscule festive note that had marked the beginning of the meeting was now instantly dissolved. Bart Carey and Phil Dongen wore deep frowns, and Rev. Lorenzo Niesen was shaking his head up and down, up and down, signifying rage. "Some of us did!" Carey said, in a husky, thickly accented voice. "I know," Adam Cramer granted. "The Farragut County Federation for Constitutional Government was a step in the right direction. But it didn't accomplish much because the liars have done their jobs well. They've made you think your hands are tied. You couldn't afford fancy lawyers, so you failed. But, Mr. Carey, I'm not talking specifically to you or to those like yourself who have worked to fight this thing. I'm talking to the people who are still confused, in the dark, who haven't fully realized or understood or grasped the meaning of this here ruling. To those, Mr. Carey, who have been soft and who have trusted the government to do right by them. It's a natural thing, you understand. We all love our country, and it's natural to believe that the people who run it are a hundred per cent square. But our great senator from Wisconsin showed us, I think, how wrong that view happens to be. He proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are skunks and rats and vermin in the government! Didn't he?" "That's right!" shouted Lorenzo Niesen. "That's right. God bless the senator!" "Yes," Adam Cramer said. "Amen to that, sir. We know now that there are men with fine titles and with great power, wonderful power, who are doing their level best to sell our country out to the Communists. And it's these men, folks, and nobody else, who're cramming integration down your throats. There isn't any question in the world about that." Slowly Adam Cramer's voice was rising in pitch. Perspiration was running down his face, staining his collar, but he did not make any effort to wipe it away. "Here's something," he said. "I'll bet you all don't know. In interpreting the school decisions of May 17, 1954 and May 31, 1955, by the United States Supreme Court, Judge John J. Parker of the Fourth Circuit Court of the United States, speaking in the case-" he removed a note from his breast pocket-"of Briggs versus Elliot, said: '. . . it is. important that we point out exactly what the Supreme Court has decided and what it has not decided in this case. It has not decided that the Federal Courts are to take over and regulate the public schools of the states. It has not decided that the states must mix persons of different races in the schools or must require them to attend schools or must deprive them of the right of choosing the schools they attend. What it has decided, and all it has decided, is that a state may not deny to any person on account of race the right to attend any school that it maintains. This, under the decision of the Supreme Court, the state may not do directly or indirectly; but if the schools which it maintains are open to children of all races, no violation of the Constitution is involved even though the children of different races voluntarily attend different schools, as they attend different churches. Nothing in the Constitution or in the decision of the Supreme Court takes away from the people freedom to choose the schools they attend. The Constitution, in other words, does not require integration…' "You get that, people? 'The Constitution does not require integration!' That's an accurate record of a legal statement. A judge with a sense of justice and fairness said it. But I'm just a-wondering if Abraham Silver mentioned those little teeny things to you. Did he? "We've got to follow the big law, the ruling and all that; except, I'll say it again, loud and clear, and you listen, every one of you listen: The Constitution don't require integration!" Adam Cramer stopped talking. His voice had risen sharply on the last five words; now angry silence filled the air above the courthouse lawn. He continued, almost in a whisper: "Now I'll tell you what this whole long thing is about. It isn't about integration at all-in spite of what that would mean, and I've showed you, I hope, what it would mean. It isn't about the Negroes or having anything against them, either. I don't, any more than you people do. No: the real issue at stake here, friends, is the issue of States' rights. That's what it comes to. According to the Constitution, each state in the union is supposed to have local control of itself, isn't that so? That's supposed to be the point of a democratic government. Look at Article One, Section Eight, Paragraph Five, of the U.S. Constitution. Read over your government books in the library. States' rights is the whole meaning behind America-local control of purchasing power, local control of state and county politics, local control of schools. Okay! Now, you let the Federal Government step in and start to give orders-like they're doing now-and you may think it's just a step toward socialism, but that ain't so. It's a step toward Communism! The Soviet Union-Russia!-works just that way. A couple of the big boys decide that so much tax is to be levied in every town, or they decide the Siberians are going to share the schools with the whites-or whatever-and nobody can open their mouth. Why? Because in Communist Russia, no one single county has any rights of its own. It can't veto any judgments or stop any orders. It can't do anything but sit there and take it. "You may think I'm getting off the point, or being a little far-fetched, but you're wrong! Friends, the eyes of the world are on Caxton. I've been in Washington, D.C., and I know that to be true. You all are the country's test tube, the guinea pig! That's why I say you've got the future, not only of Caxton, but of A
merica in your hands!" Lucy Egan nudged Ella secretively and smiled. "Boy," she said, "he is really some talker. I mean, he honestly is." Ella had been listening with a peculiar mixture of pride and uneasiness, and the truth was, she did not know whether to be pleased or displeased. Tom had not seen her yet, for which she was, oddly, grateful (there being no reason to be grateful); he and Mr. Wolfe and some of the others, a few, did not appear to be very happy with the speech Adam Cramer was making, though most of the people were. You could see that. "Sort of, if you squint, like Marlon Brando," Lucy Egan said, squinting. "Like, mean. A little." It made no particular sense to Ella, the speech. This dry type of thing that her father and Cramp were always talking about, that was always in the newspapers these days, mostly bored her, and she would have gone back home (where, she supposed, she ought to be, anyway) except that the speaker was Adam Cramer. And she knew, sensed, that she would be seeing him again soon. "He's really getting them worked up," Lucy Egan said. "There hasn't been anything like this in Caxton in I don't know how long. Don't you think he looks like Brando?" "Kind of," Ella said. "Did he kiss you good night?" Lucy Egan asked suddenly. Ella hesitated, noting the anxiousness in her friend's eyes. Then she said: "Sure." "Boy, I don't guess there was anything else, like." "Oh, Lucy, come on." "There was?" "No, no." "A lot of what you say makes sense," James Wolfe said, stepping forward during a dramatic pause. "And certainly we all agree with you that this ruling was illconsidered. But it is a ruling, and can't be abrogated. I assure you we've tried everything." "Who are you, sir?" Adam Cramer asked. "My name is Wolfe, James Wolfe. I'm a lawyer. I spoke personally, you may be interested to know, with Judge Silver, and I'd like to correct you on at least one point. You're giving the impression that a district judge has authority to overrule a federal ruling. That's entirely wrong." James Wolfe turned toward the crowd. "The judge had absolutely no choice in the matter. As a matter off the record, he doesn't think any more of the decision than we do." "Abraham Silver is a clever man, Mr. Wolfe. You'd have to have studied the situation and all of its ramifications to understand that, as we do, We-" "Just a moment. Just a moment. As it happens, Mr. Cramer, I and a group of other qualified men have studied the situation. It's all very clear-cut. The Judge Parker quote that you take such stock in is ridiculous as applied to conditions in Caxton. Unless you propose to subrogate legal action with illegal action, I can't see that you've presented anything in the form of a positive idea." Adam Cramer smiled tolerantly. "As it happens, Mr. Wolfe," he said, "I do have ideas. And they're absolutely legal. They take courage and daring, now, I'll tell you all right off the bat. But they're legitimate." "All right, then, let's have them." "First, I want to get one thing clear." Adam Cramer spoke distinctly, addressing himself to the entire assemblage. "Do you people want nigras in your school? Answer yes or no!" There was a roar from the crowd. "No!" "No," Adam Cramer said, and smiled. "Fine. Now, are you willing to fight this thing down to the last ditch and keep fighting until it's conquered?" Another roar, like a giant wave: "Yes!" "Yes. Fine!" Adam Cramer raised his hands, and the people were quiet. "Well, I'm willing to work with you. Maybe you want to know why. After all, I'm not a Southerner. I wasn't born in Caxton. But I am an American, friends, and I love my country-and I am ready to give up my life, if that be necessary, to see that my country stays free, white and American!" Phillip Dongen, who has seldom been moved to such emotional heights, led off the applause. It was a frantic drum roll. "Friends, listen to me for a minute." The young man's voice was soft again. It rose and fell, the words were soothing, or sharp as gunfire. "Please. Mr. Wolfe, over there, has mentioned something about keeping the attack legal. As far as I'm concerned, something is legal or illegal depending on whether it's right or wrong. If nine old crows in black robes tell me that breathing is against the law, I'm not going to feel like a criminal every time I take a breath. The way I see it, the people make the laws, hear? The people!" The car, bearing an out-of-county license plate, swung slowly onto George Street from the highway. It was a 1939 Ford, caked with dust and rusty, loud with groans of dry metal. It had come a long way. The five people within were limp with the heat, silent and incurious. Only a small part of their minds, like icebergs, were above the conscious level of thought. Ginger Beauchamp did not move the gear lever from high as they commenced the hill, nor was he concerned with the misfires and rattles that followed. His foot was numb on the accelerator pedal. He could think only of getting through the seventy miles that remained, of falling, exhausted, onto the cot. There was no damn sense to visiting his mother. She didn't appreciate it. If she was so anxious to see him, why didn't she ever try to be a little nice? he thought. Well, she's old. I say I ain't going to make this drive no more, but I am. And Harriet will want to come along and bring Willie and Shirley and Pete. Now, damn. If I could go just myself, then maybe it wouldn't be so damn bad. But I can't. She just don't want to see me, she wants to see the kids, And-. Ginger Beauchamp saw the people gathered on the lawn in front of the courthouse and slowed down. "What is it?" Harriet said. She opened her eyes, but did not move. "Nothin'. Go back to sleep, get you plenty of sleep." He glared at his wife and swore that next week he would make her learn to drive. That would take some of the strain off. Then he could sleep a little, too. "What is it, Ginger?" "Nothin', I said." The car moved slowly, still coughing and gasping with its heavy load. The overhead traffic light turned red. Ginger pumped the brakes three times and put the gear lever in neutral. Sure a lot of people. He started to close his eyes, briefly, when out of the engine noise and murmur of the crowd, he heard a sharp, high voice. "Hey-a, look!" Then another voice, also high-pitched: "Git 'em, now. Come on!" Ginger looked around and saw a group of young boys sprinting across the street toward his car. They were white boys. What the hell, now, he thought. "Ginger, it's green, Ginger." He hesitated only a moment; then, when he saw the running people and heard what they were yelling, he put his foot down, hard, on the accelerator. But he had forgotten to take the car out of gear. The engine roared, ineffectively. "You niggers, hey. Wait a second, don't you run off, don't do that!" Suddenly, the street in front of him was blocked with people. They surrounded the car in a cautious circle, only the young ones coming close. "What's the trouble?" Ginger asked. "No trouble," a boy in a T-shirt and levis answered. "You looking for trouble?" "No, I ain't looking for no trouble," Ginger said. The exhaustion had left him. Harriet was staring, getting ready to cry. The children were asleep. "We just goin' on to Hollister." "Oh, you jes' a-goin' on to Hollister? How do we know that?" One of the boys put his hands on the window frame and began rocking the car. "Don't do that now," Ginger said. He was a thin man; his bones poked into his dark black skin like te.ntpoles. But the muscles in his arms were hard; years of lifting heavy boxes had made them that way. "Sweet Jesus," Harriet Beauchamp said. She had begun to tremble. "Hush," Ginger said. Another boy leaped on the opposite running board, and the rocking got worse. "Cut it out, now, come on, you kids," Ginger said. "I don't want to spoil nobody's fun, but we got to get home." "Who says you got to?" The circle of people moved in, watching. Some of the men peeled away and approached the car. Their throats were knotted. Their hands were clenched into fists. A small white man with a crushed felt hat said, "Nobody gave you no permission to drive through Caxton, niggers. They's a highway to Hollister." "Well, sure," Ginger said. "I know that. But-" "But nothin'. How come you in our street, gettin' it all messed up?" The two boys were rocking the car violently now. Pete Beauchamp, aged seven, woke up and began to cry. Ginger looked at the small man in the crushed hat. "What's the matter with you folks?" he said. "We ain't done nothin'. We ain't done a thing." "You got our street all dirty," the small man said. Ginger felt his heart beating faster. Harriet was staring with wide eyes, shuddering. "Awright," Ginger said. "We sorry. We won't come this way no more." "That's what you say," another man said. "I figure you lying." "I don't tell nobody lies, mister," Ginger said. He was trying very hard to hold the anger that was clawing up from his stomach. Dimly he heard a voi
ce calling, "Stop it. Stop all this, leave them alone!" but it seemed distant and unreal. "You all just please get out the way, now, and we'll be gone." "You tellin' us?" a boy shouted. "Hey, the coon's tellin' us what to do." Two more young whites leaped onto the running boards. The Ford rocked violently, back and forth. "State your business here," the small man said. "I did," Ginger said. "I told you, we trying to get home." "That's a crock of plain shit!" Ginger Beauchamp felt it all explode inside him. He clashed the gear lever into first and said, "You all drunk or crazy, one. I'm driving through here. If you don't want to get yourself run over, move out the way!" The boy in levis and T-shirt reached in suddenly and pulled the keys out of the ignition. Ginger grabbed him, but a fist shot into his neck. He gagged. Young men with knives began to stab the tires of the Ford, then. Others threw pebbles into the window. The sharp, hard little stones struck Ginger's face and Harriet's, and the children in the back seat were all awake now, shrilling. "You crazy!" Ginger shouted. "Gimme back my keys!" "Come and get it, black man!" "Sure, come on out and get it!" A stone glanced off Ginger's forehead. He felt a small trickle of warm blood. Now the circle had engulfed the car, and the people were all shouting and yelling, and the Ford was lifted off its wheels. "Maybe you learn now, maybe you learn we don't want you here!" "Look at him, chicken!" "Yah, chicken!" Ginger forced the door open. The grinning boys jumped back, stared, waiting. "Honey, don't, please don't!" Ginger stood there, and a quiet came over the people. They stared at him, and he saw something in their faces that he had never seen before. He was thirty-eight years old, and he'd lived in the South all his life, and his mother had told him stories, but he had never seen anything like this or dreamed that it could happen. It occurred, suddenly, to Ginger that he was going to die. And standing there in the middle of the crowd of white people, he wondered why. The word came out. "Why?" The small man hawked and spat on the ground. "You ought t'know, nigger," he said. There was no air. Only the heat and the smell of sweat and heavy breath, The silence lasted another instant. Then the young men laughed, and ambled loosely over to the car. One of them supported himself on two others, lifted his feet and kicked the rear window. Glass exploded inward. Ginger Beauchamp sprang, blind with fury. He pushed the two boys away and confronted the one who had kicked the glass. He was a gangling youth of no more than sixteen. His face was covered with blackheads and his hair hung matted over his forehead like strips of seaweed. He saw Ginger's rage and grinned widely. "Don't you do it," Harriet cried. "Ginger, don't!" The thin Negro knew what it would mean to strike a white man; but he also knew what it would mean if he did not fight to protect his family. All of this passed through his mind in a flash. As quickly, he decided. He was about to smash his fist into the boy's face, when a voice cried, "Awright, now, break it up! Break it up!" and the people began to move. "Nigger here come a-lookin' for trouble, Sheriff!" "Which?" "This one." "Awright, Freddy, you go on home now. We'll take care of it." "He like to run over me!" "Go on home." The circle of people gradually broke off, moved away, some standing and watching from the corner, others disappearing into the night. Ginger Beauchamp stood next to his automobile, his hands still bunched solidly into fists, the cords tight in his neck and in his arms. A large man in a gray suit said, "You better get along." Ginger could see only the red faces and the angry eyes, and hear the words that had fallen on 'him like whiplashes. "I think he's hurt, Sheriff." "Naw, he ain't hurt. Are you, fella?" Ginger couldn't answer. Someone was talking to him, the kids were crying, Harriet was looking at him-but he couldn't answer. The large man in the gray suit nodded to a uniformed policeman. "Tony," he said, "get 'em out of here quick. Send one car along." "Yes, sir." "Don't waste any time." The policeman walked over to Ginger Beauchamp and said, "Let's go." Ginger nodded. Suddenly he was very tired again. "Tom, I know how you feel," the sheriff said, "but we don't want to go flying off the handle." "Why not?" Tom McDaniel's heart was still hammering inside his chest, and the fury at what he had seen filled him. "Those people might have been killed if I hadn't dragged you out when I did." "What people?" "The Negroes in the car!" Sheriff Parkhouse gave Tom a sidelong glance. He began to fill his pipe with tobacco, slowly, rocking in the cane-bottomed chair. "I been living here for thirty years," he said, "and in all that time, I ain't never seen a nigger get hurt. Have you?" Tom found himself actively disliking the large man. He particularly disliked the easy, slow movements, the unruffled calm. A little tobacco, up and down, gently, with the silver tool, a little more tobacco… "That hasn't got anything to do with it." he said. "Maybe not, maybe not. But answer the question, Tom. Have you ever seen a nigger get hurt in Caxton?" "Yes," Tom said. "Tonight." The sheriff sighed. His leathery, country flesh had begun to sag from the high cheekbones, and there was something incongruous about the crewcut that kept his white hair short and flat on his head. Here, Tom thought, in this jail, he's king. People fear him. People actually fear this ignorant man. Parkhouse sucked fire into the scarred bowl of the pipe, released a cloud of thick, aromatic smoke. "Well," he said, smiling, "what you got in your mind for me to do?" "Take action," Tom said. "Keep the peace. That's what you're getting paid for." Parkhouse stopped smiling. "That's right," Tom said angrily. "You're mighty quick to pick a drunk off the street, Rudy, some poor fella that doesn't care any what happens to him. But when it comes to real trouble, you just can't bring yourself to move off that seat." The chair came forward with a crack. Parkhouse stared for a moment, and his eyes were hard and small. "That," he said slowly, "ain't very polite." "Polite!" Tom walked to the window and turned. "Let me get this straight. A family was attacked in this town tonight. You know who did the attacking and so do I. Property was destroyed and people were injured. There was blood. And you don't intend to do a thing about it. Not a single goddamn thing. Is that correct?" "Yeah, that's correct! Now listen, it's real easy for you to sit back and say 'Take action.' Yeah. But you don't even know what you're talking about. What kind of action?" The sheriff began to jab the air with his pipestem. "There was at least fifty people around that car. You want to arrest all of them?" Tom opened his mouth to answer. "Okay, let's say we do that. I arrest all of them fifty people. Charge 'em with disorderly conduct. Then what? This jail here was built in 1888, Tom. The doors are steel, but the walls are partly adobe: a thirteen-year-old could bust out in twenty minutes if he put his mind to it. Okay, fifty people. And they're hoppin' mad, too, don't think they ain't. I'd be. Now we got nine 18 by 18 cells and two runarounds, mostly filled as it is. You begin to get the drift?" The sheriff brought his pipe to life again. "I like to see a real civic-minded citizen, Tom, I do. Somebody all the time thinking about the community. Shows real fine spirit. I just wish that you and your paper had of seen to it that we got us a decent jail before you come in here bellering for me to arrest half the town…" Tom ran a hand through his hair. The sheriff's word stung, for it was true. He hadn't ever taken much interest in the condition of the jail. The man had a point, anyway. "But let me tell you something else," Parkhouse went on dryly. The way he looked, sitting there, made it suddenly easy to understand why certain people feared him. "Even if we had a calaboose the size of San Quentin, I still wouldn't go out and start hauling everybody in. Tom, you don't seem to see. Half of those people were kids. School kids. Throwing them in jail would be like giving them a Christmas present." "What do you mean?" "I mean, every kid wants to get put in a cell for a night or so. It's a lark. Hell, they'd have so much fun they'd probably tear this old place down to the ground!" "Maybe so, but-" "And here's something else that I guess you ain't thought about. Who, exactly, do we arrest? The ones who was actually touching the car? The ones in the street, whether they did anything or not? Or, just to be on the safe side, should we arrest everybody who attended the meeting?" Parkhouse chuckled. "That'd include you and your daughter. She was there, I heard." "Who told you that?" "Jimmy, or somebody. What's the difference? I'm just trying to show you why I can't 'take action.' And I wouldn't waste my time this way, either, if I didn't know you was a man with s
ome sense." Somewhere in the jail, somewhere upstairs, a voice was raised in song. It was not a particularly mournful or moving sound. "But one thing still remains. A crime was committed and nobody's been punished. They got away with it, clean. So what's to stop them from doing the same thing tomorrow night?" The sheriff took a bottle of pop from the refrigerator behind the desk and removed the cap. "The people in this town are good," he said. "I ought to know that better than anyone else, ain't that so? They're good. But it's hot, and somebody just got them riled, that's all. Now it's out of their system. We-" "That's right," Tom snapped. "Somebody got them riled. You might even say, somebody talked them into doing what they did." Parkhouse nodded. "You know what that's called, Rudy?" "I don't get you." "That's called 'inciting to riot.' It's a crime. If you don't believe me, look it up." "I know what's a crime and what isn't," the sheriff said. "I don't have to look nothing up." "Then why don't you throw Adam Cramer into jail?" "Who?" "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Tom slammed his palm down on the desk. "The kid who gave the speech! The kid who started the whole thing in the first place, who got the people all inflamed. Adam Cramer!" "Oh." The sheriff emptied half of the bottle of Dr. Pepper down his throat and leaned back in his chair. "Well," he said, "I can't very well do that, either, Tom." "You can't very well do that, either-why not?" "Just take it easy, now, and I'll explain-just like I explained the other things. I can't arrest Cramer because he wasn't even around when the niggers drove up. To get him for sedition and inciting to riot, we'd have to catch him right there at the front of the mob, leading 'em on. As it was, he was in Joan's Cafe, having a cup of coffee with Verne Shipman, when it happened." "With Verne?" The anger in Tom gave way suddenly to confusion, and fear. "That's right," the sheriff said. "And you know, Tom, you can't put a man in jail for speaking his mind. If you don't believe me, look it up." He smiled. "Maybe you and me don't go along with that, now, but it's in the Constitution. If a man wants to, he can get out on a street corner and call the President of the United States a son of a bitch-and nobody can stop him. He can say America is no good and we ought to all be Communists-hell, he can say anything-and nobody's allowed to touch him. It's what's called Freedom of Speech. Besides, the way I heard it, this fella didn't say one solitary thing that everybody in town ain't been saying right along. What have you got against him, anyway?" "Adam Cramer is a rabble-rouser," Tom said, in a hopeless voice. "Well, hell, maybe we need a little rabble-rousing here!" The sheriff laughed goodnaturedly. "But it could be I didn't get my facts straight. You were there. Did he tell those folks to stop the niggers in the car?" "No." "Did he tell them to do anything except maybe join this organization of his?" "I-no. No, that's all he told them." "Well, see, that ain't hardly grounds for arrest. Just good old Freedom of Speech in action, Tom!" "Yes," Tom said. "That's Democracy." "Yes." The sheriff slapped Tom's shoulder affably. "Don't get me wrong," he said. "I hate to see anybody get hurt in my town. I don't care whether he's white or black. But I personally think this particular nigra must of been one of those wise ones that are moving into the county from the North; I think he must of started shooting off his mouth: otherwise nothing like this would of happened, and you know it. They're good people here, but they won't put up with a smart-ass nigra. I can't blame them for that. Can you, Tom?" "No, I can't blame them for that," Tom said and started out the door. "Get some sleep," the sheriff called. "And don't worry. They got it all out of their system tonight!" Got what out of their system? Tom thought. The night air was moist and hot and windless, and the dark streets were empty now. Tom McDaniel walked to his car, got in and lit a cigarette. The people I've lived with most of my life would have murdered that Negro, he thought, if I hadn't called Parkhouse. That's certain. What is it that the people have to get out of their systems? What is it that stays so close to the surface that a few words from a Yankee stranger can send it flooding out? Tonight, he thought, was the beginning. A war is coming to my town; and I don't even know whose side I'm on.
Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories Page 27
