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 America 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 voice 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 t
hat 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 Howling Man Page 42
