by Tim Bryant
"So what's the story?" I said.
"Which one you wanna hear?" he said.
"If there's a true one, I'll take that."
So it seems, Conray was living in Woden and working around the area doing some kind of pipelining or something. He hired these three boys to come along. It was right before Christmas, and he told them he could give them some Christmas money if they could help him finish up a couple of jobs before it got here.
They all met up at a store in Woden. Maybe the only store in Woden. He drove out into the middle of nowhere, pulled the car over on the side of the road, and told the colored boy to get out. Get out and run. His two white friends looked at Conray like he was crazy.
The colored boy got out, and Conray chased along behind him in the car. Just close enough to keep him going, bumping right up against him when he got too tired. Finally, when he had enough of running him around, he pulled out a pistol and shot five bullets into the boy's back through the driver's side window. Of course, the other boys went hysterical.
"You so goddamn concerned about him, why don't you get the fuck out there and see if you can save him," Conray said.
One of the boys opened his car door and ran to check on his friend. Conray gassed the engine, toying with the kid. Then he reloaded his gun and shot him, just for being a nigger lover. The last boy was so scared, Conray had to pull him out of the back seat by an ear.
"I ain't gonna get your nigger loving blood all over my upholstery," he said.
I was enraged. How could a man get three years in prison for something like that. Even in Woden, Texas?
"Because it turned out not to be what really happened," said Ephriam. "That was the story Billy Conray told to people in Nacogdoches. At least a few people at some bar."
What Conray hadn't known was that one of the boys, a white kid with connections to an old money family in town, lived long enough to tell a pretty different version of things. Conray left all three kids for dead, and two of them were. But one of the white kids, a boy named Eddie Swain, was able to get to a nearby home. The couple there took him to a hospital in Lufkin.
Hospital staff brought in police, not even knowing that there were two more bodies left out in Nacalina. The police found everything out soon enough, and they also started finding evidence that raised more questions. What type of work were they supposed to be doing? Why did two of them have knives? Why was one hiding a chain inside of his coat? If they were working for Christmas money, why did the other white victim have two hundred dollars in his coat pocket?
Eddie Swain broke under the pressure and admitted that the three boys had attacked Conray and robbed him. They were attempting to take his car when he pulled a gun from beneath the driver's seat and started firing.
Swain died a few days later, and Conray wound up with ten years. Not for killing the colored boy, but for killing Eddie Swain, whose uncle was a trial lawyer.
Some people will lie about just about anything, and you can never be perfectly sure of another man's motivations.
"Harmon's eyes were starting to look yellow. He never looked back, so it wasn't homesickness. It wasn't seasickness. It was just plain old sickness. And we were back on the water, no land in sight. Most days, he would spend inside the bunk, flat on his back and rocked to sleep by the rise and fall of the waves. Most nights, on the bow of the boat, watching the stars like he was waiting for a sign. I don't know what he was thinking, and I didn't ask.
"When we reached Haiti, we went into a village just outside of Port-au-Prince and found a bocar, a voodou chief. They called him a leaf doctor because he used plants and natural medicines. And he played a drum which made Harmon very happy.
"Any doctor who plays a drum on the job is using my kind of medicine, he said.
"Harmon spent part of an afternoon, deep into a night in the care of the bocar, and he immediately felt better. We even spent the following evening playing music with the doctor and several of his friends. Harmon sang Blind lemon Jefferson songs while the bocar and a man named Jean Telly played drums and called on Papa Legba and Lasirèn to give us safe passage as we continued on our way.
"That Papa Legba seemed like a spirit I could get along with. He seemed familiar to me. I got the Jean Telly to paint his picture on the back of the music stick, and he painted an old man with a hat.
"That looks like me, I said. You painted me.
"Harmon did good for the next week. He stayed in his bunk a good portion of the time, but he spent most of that time reading. He loved to read, and when he had a book in his hand, I knew two things. One was that he was happy. Because books made him happy. From Mark Twain to Edgar Rice Burroughs to James Weldon Johnson, he often had a new one in one hand even as he was closing up the old one. The other thing I knew— or at least thought I knew— was that when he was reading, he thought he was going to live, at least long enough to finish the book.
"That's why I was startled to wake up one morning not far from the coast of Trinidad and find my friend Harmon Littlejohn, sometimes better remembered as Little John Harmon, dead in his bunk with an unfinished copy of Canterbury Tales in his hand.
"I had felt alone before, but I'm not sure I ever knew what lonesome meant until then. The next couple of days were longer than they had any right to be, and full of much thought. Funny enough, it reminded me of when George Delafield died. How I had promised to see to it that he was put safely into Mount Violet, close to those he loved.
"Harmon had told me, back before we reached Haiti, that if he were to die on the Lady Camargo, he wanted to be buried at sea, like King Arthur.
"King Arthur wasn't buried in no sea, I said.
"Harmon said he was too.
"King Arthur ain't even for real, I said. He's ain't nothing but a made up story.
"Harmon was hard headed if he was anything, and he was having none of it.
"I thought about it for a long time, but I never could bring myself to dropping Harmon off in the ocean, like he was a worm for the fishes. I wrapped him up good and tight and sailed on for South America. When I reached the shores of Trinidad— and let me tell you, they were a beautiful sight to see; it was like looking at goddamn paradise after you just sailed through a hurricane of blues— I knew this was the place to let Harmon find his rest. We had made it.
The water table is fairly shallow around the Patton's Landing area, mostly because of the river. There are springs that feed into it, and the ground in general in fairly moist, as long as you stay within sight of the river. We were probably eight or ten feet down and getting close to the bottom. You could tell because you could see a water line which told you that there had actually been water in the bottom of it fairly recently, probably when the river flooded during the spring.
Ephriam was telling Art stories, and I was imagining all the things we could possibly find once we reached the bottom. The bones of the first Art. The real, true Art. This poor baby who had had a lifetime of being Art snatched from him.
There could be coins. Old confederate coins. Worthless now except to collectors. Thrown into the well for the amusement and good luck of people whose fortune had run out long ago. Maybe family heirlooms hidden during the war. Gold and silver. A gun thrown away to destroy evidence.
All of these things and more were circling around in my head. To the point I didn't pay much mind when Ephriam mentioned that the stone walls were getting soft and crumbly. We had a rope ladder tied off at a tree trunk at the top, with two-by-fours set about every three feet or so. He had used it to climb up into a barn on the Whitaker property. Ephriam must have either sensed some kind of trouble or had a moment of panic or claustrophobia, because he reached up and pulled on the rope, stepped on the first step like he wanted to practice, just in case it was needed. He took one step and then dropped back down, seeming satisfied. I remember his clapping his hands together and smiling at me. He was just about to say something when it began to rain dirt. Just a little at first, like when a summer rain comes across the river. And
then it kept on coming.
We both looked up and, at first, I thought the west wall of the well was coming down. Then I understood what had happened. The dirt we had been shifting out of the well, stacking up on that side, was coming back at us.
"We've gotta get out of here," I said.
I pushed Ephriam up the ladder, knowing that if he didn't make it out alive, I would never be able to face up to Oda Whitaker. I've heard people say that when something big and bad hits them, everything seems to run in slow motion. Far as I can tell, I would tend to say that's utter bullshit. Everything happened so fast, I didn't know what hit me. In hindsight, I know that it was a big wall of dirt. Within seconds, I was swallowed up whole like the man in the Bible.
I don't know how to describe to you what it feels like to be buried alive. It's like drowning, except you're drowning in dirt. I opened my mouth to scream and got a mouthful of it. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but it. I tried to claw at it, and my hands wouldn't move. I felt like I was going under. I couldn't breathe.
I had no idea where Ephriam was. If he had made it out or was buried above me. I could hear nothing but the pounding of my own heart, the blood rushing through my head, my muffled attempts to suck air into my lungs, which seemed to be on fire.
I remember shutting down. Letting go. Becoming the blackness that surrounded me. The very last memory I had was that I was already buried so no one would have to go to any trouble.
There is no such thing as the story of someone's life.
1. Each life is made up of thousands and thousands of stories, all going on at different times, overlapping each other, ending and then starting over again.
2. Our stories all overlap with each other's too. Harmon's stories overlap with mine, and mine overlap with somebody else. Lots of somebody elses.
3. Our stories are affected by and overlapped by stories that came before us. Ancestors and people we may or may not even know by name. And we are affecting the stories of people who are not yet born.
I lived in Trinidad for three years, mostly in the suburbs of Port of Spain. I made friends, and I made money, mostly playing music— and sometimes cards— in Saint James. I met a lady named Safrana there, and we became quite close. I had my own house there, close to Cocorite on the Western Main Road. A nice house with a screened in front porch where the neighbors would come and spend evenings.
Safrana worked in a home for young girls. It was in a good part of the town. A good job, because her sisters worked on a sugarcane plantation. They were paid for their work, but the hours and conditions were terrible. It reminded me of the Conray plantation. I told Safrana she could come and live with me, but her father would have never allowed it. To make things more difficult, Safrana was involved in a group fighting for workers' rights. Trying to reform things, make for a better life.
I also met a man from Ghana in Saint James, and convinced me that I should go to Africa. He said every man of color needs to go at least one time and have a look around. I kept that in mind for a while. Sometimes I wouldn't see the man from Ghana for a while, and then, when we would run into each other, he would say, I thought you must have gone to Africa.
Finally, one night, Safrana and I had an argument, and she said she wouldn't be coming around for a while. I took it as a sign and packed up my belongings. Left my yellow house on Western Main and shoved off from Port of Spain early the following morning.
Sometimes I still miss that house. Sometimes I miss the smell of fish and chicken barbecuing in the neighboring houses. The Lambie souse. The Calypso. The Carnival. And sometimes I wonder whatever happened to Safrana and her sisters. What are Safrana's stories, and does she remember when one of hers crossed mine.
I was down there with the bones of the true Art and Blue Dick and the hidden silver and God knows what. Dead as a rock in the weary land. My wellspring had dried up. I don't know how long I was there. I had no dream or vision about entering through the narrow gates of heaven or busting hell open wide either. I didn't hear angels call my name.
At some point, I did hear voices. Faint voices. And I saw a light too, but it was weak.
"Get that lamp down here closer. I think I see him."
I didn't make any attempt to say or do anything. I was picking up signals but all transmissions were down. A few moments later, I could feel the ground open up and then a hand wrapped around mine. I squeezed, and my senses flooded back into me, but they were confounded and out of sorts, as if they'd all come back topsy-turvy. Out of order and in the wrong places.
"Be careful."
I recognized the voice, but, in my confusion, I thought I was Art Patton and the voice was Harmon Littlejohn. I turned my face to the light.
"Harm."
I could feel nothing below my chest. As far as I knew, that's all there was left of me.
"I think he said something. Grab this arm and pull. Don't yank, just pull."
Moments later, I was pulled free of the grave and rolled onto the ground. My nose, my mouth, my lungs all full of dirt. Baptized in it and born again. I saw a face that I knew. It wasn't Harmon. It wasn't Ephriam.
He bent down next to me and put a canteen to my lips.
"Take just a little bit."
The water was cold, and I could feel it going all the way down. Like I was parched ground and it was the first rain in too long. My faculties somewhat restored, I wondered where Ephriam was. Had I seen him. Was he still in the well. Had he been pulled out too. Was he alive.
I looked back at the man with the canteen. Billy Lee Conray the Third.
"I'm gonna tell you this one time. I'm gonna help you get your friend up to the road. Then you're gonna take him and scram. You're gonna tear ass out of here for good, understand. Because if I catch either one of you out here again, you can bet your balls, it's gonna be real bad news."
Ephriam wanted to take me back to Oda, but I knew I had to get home. I'm not sure how he made it from there. I suspect Paul took him. What the two of them might have said, I have no idea. I do know Paul covered for me when questions were raised the next day. I hurt for a week or two after, and I had a limp for about as long, but that was about it for physical aftershocks. The mental ones proved tougher to deal with. Sometimes I still wake up in the night fighting my way out of that damn well. Sometimes Art is pulling me to safety. Sometimes it's Billy Conray. Most of the time, there's nobody there at all. Just me, the dirt and the darkness.
"Africa.
"The west coast of Africa, the nation of Senegal specifically, became an extremely important part of my story, even if I choose not to tell all of it. The truth is, we only know pieces of another person's story. The pieces they tell. Or the pieces that overlap with ours.
"Parts of my story I keep to myself. Everybody does.
I arrived in Dakar toward the end of 1928, right in the middle of a walkout by seamen there in the port. I might have taken a job there, but I couldn't speak French or Wolof. I was a new face in town. A negro, but an American. I met a Frenchman who could speak English, and word quickly got around that I had been living in Trinidad and had connections to some of the union organizers there. Within a week, I was helping to put together underground meetings with people there in Dakar.
I never cared for politics. I had only found myself in their surroundings by happenstance. By mistake really. Soon enough, I was able to get away from the port area. I went up the coast to Ndar, settling a couple of miles up the Senegal River. There, much to my surprise, I would spend the next twenty-four years. Ndar reminded me of Havana, both to the eye and to the ear. I was happy to discover that Cuban music was popular on the radio and in the streets. I played more music than I had since Harmon and me had played in Havana and Haiti.
I learned Wolof. After a year or two, it seems the only time I used my native tongue was when I was reading. I would go years without hearing it spoken. Even my thoughts and dreams began coming to me in Wolof.
"Maa ngi tudd Art Patton. Ameriik laa joge. Dégg nga?
/> I converted the Lady Camargo into a fishing boat and made a decent living, but fortune found me even on the Senegal River. Four years after I arrived, I met a man named Sadio who was getting into the peanut farming business. I invested with him and made many more dollars from that venture than I ever did fishing.
Sadio was also responsible, indirectly, for another momentous occurrence. As time went on, I would take trips down to Dakar three or four times a year. Sadio would show me the latest developments with the business, and he would pay me my portion of the profits. I would then buy supplies and anything I needed for the boat and enjoy a night of entertainment. This would include music and a meal and, as time went by, a visit to one of the working girls close to the port. A cagga.
There was one particular cagga named Marietou who I would call on with some regularity. She liked to hear stories from back home in Texas, and I began to enjoy telling them almost as much as being with her. I had been with her four or five times, and then, one night I came to her room and she was gone. It reminded me of Safrana on Western Main Road in Port of Spain, Trinidad, but I had learned my lesson this time. I had grown wiser, or at least more strong-headed. I went looking for her.
I spent a day and a half longer in the city, following directions from people who thought they might know her. I finally found her in the home of an old lady who thought I was her pimp. It took some doing, but I managed to get her to let me see her.
"Fukki minit."
Ten minutes.
In the next ten minutes, my life would change once again.
My daughter was born to Marietou Mbengue on January 20, 1938. I named her Jo Biidéo. Jo for Jodora. Biidéo, Wolof for star. I was able to get Marietou a job working for Sadio, and she raised Jo Biidéo until she was of school age. There were no schools for girls in her location, so I paid a woman who worked in a Catholic private school to teach her. During that time, she would live with her mother during school terms and stay with me when it was out. I would play music for her and tell her stories of my days in Pattonia, my life as Art and only Art, of mean old Blue Dick, of Harmon Littlejohn.
