Song Yet Sung

by James McBride

  Herbie had actually seen Patty close-up only once. He often traveled great distances to play poker and two years earlier had found himself at a high-stakes game in Hughlett’s Neck, a river town off the Choptank River, up in Talbot County. It was a punchy bunch up there, low drummers, snake-bitten bastards, drunk watermen, and card sharks who cheated each other and told lies all evening. Patty sat among them, smoking cigars and playing in intense silence, surrounded by her young posse, smooth-faced, charming killers, all of whom could shoot fly shit off the wall, and two of whom, Stanton Davis and Joe Johnson, Herbie knew, were sitting at the the Tin Teacup just up Main Street at this very minute.

  Standing at the door of his jailhouse, Herbie glared at the woman, a slender young Negress of about twenty, whose face raced between alarm and panic.

  —Slow down, Aunt Polly. Tell it slow, he said.

  The woman was clad in a bright quilt wrapped around her shoulders despite the temperate March weather. She sputtered and backed away from him, then walked in a small circle, wringing her hands, before looking up again.

  —Devil stole Jeff Boy! she said.

  —Who’s Jeff Boy?

  —Miss Kathleen’s son. From out Joya’s Neck.

  —Boyd Sullivan’s widow? Herbie asked.

  —Yes, sir. Devil stole him.

  —Dead? Herbie asked.

  —No, sir. I just told you, sir, she said. Boy went out to the grove. A hole opened up and the Devil came out and snatched him!

  —Speak sense, woman! Herbie snapped.

  —I am, sir, she sputtered. He was taken down. Taken down, sir. He went out to the grove. Out back behind the cornfield. Ground opened up and the Devil popped out and snatched him down the hole.

  —What hole?

  —The hole from hell he popped out of.

  Herbie rolled his eyes, puffing his cheeks and blowing out a long sigh.

  —You see it?

  —No, sir. Miss Kathleen saw it. She told her Negro Mary to get help. Mary run over to the Gables to tell me, and I come to tell you.

  —How you know the Devil done it, then?

  —Miss Kathleen said it. Told Mary it was so.

  —Where’s the boy now?

  The woman looked at him, incredulous. I just told you where he is, she replied. Devil got him down a hole.

  Herbie wondered with a sudden surge of panic if Patty and her men were somehow involved.

  —Was any white folks involved?

  —Weren’t no white folk! It was the Devil! Is you gonna come, sir? she asked. Miss Kathleen said it was really important that you come.

  —I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! Herbie retorted. You ain’t doing nothing but spitting out a bunch of damned mumbo jumbo.

  The woman looked at him, exasperated.

  —He’s been gone five hours, sir. Plus Wiley, Miss Kathleen’s Wiley—that’s Mary’s son—colored boy ’bout seventeen. Guess what! Devil got him too!

  —Where’s he?

  —Devil got him. He chased him after he snatched Jeff Boy.

  —He chased who?

  —The Devil! Wiley chased the Devil and ain’t been seen since. I reckon the Devil pulled him down to hell too.

  From behind him, Herbie heard the voice of the drunk Negro woman locked in a cell with the sick boy calling out.

  —Suh! Hey! Hungry, suh! I got to eat! And this here boy’s sick. Sick and hungry, suh!!

  Looking at the woman before him, Herbie bit his lip and suppressed an urge to slam the door in her face, he was so angry. He had one crazy nigger behind him hollering and one crazy nigger in front of him hollering.

  He glared at the woman.

  —Where’s Miss Kathleen live?

  He already knew. The Sullivans lived fourteen miles from where he stood. Tough place to reach by land, a series of dirt roads, tiny pull bridges, over windswept canals. It was easier to get there by boat, which for him was out of the question.

  He watched the colored woman’s face crinkle in surprise.

  —You don’t know where she live, sir? Why, everybody knows where Miss Kathleen lives.

  —You sassing me? I’m asking the questions here, he said, irritated.

  —No, sir, I ain’t sassing. She lives straight out on the Neck, sir. I swear ’fore God, I ain’t lying. Mary was beside herself about it. Said the missus is losing her mind worrying on it.

  —Ain’t Miss Kathleen got some niggers out there?

  —Just two. Amber went to get the constable and ain’t come back.

  —He ain’t gonna find him, Travis said. He is gone to Fell’s Point.

  —Mary can’t leave her missus, the woman said. She said the missus is gone crazy with grief about it.

  —How old’s the boy that’s gone down the ho—gone missing?

  —’Bout eight.

  For the first time Herbie’s face creased with concern. An eight-year-old out on Joya’s Neck, which was surrounded by water on three sides, could be lost on the bay easily. Playing in any of those creeks out there, he could fall in and be swept out into the bay in minutes. Or float on a skiff and get stuck on one of the many tiny, sandy island patches that showed themselves during the day in March when the tide ran out, only to be swallowed by the bay at night when the tide came in. He glanced overhead at the sky. In the distance he could see a thunderstorm coming. March thundergusts usually didn’t last long, but if the colored woman was telling the truth, and if the boy was playing on a skiff or in the water someplace, he could be in trouble. But then again, the nigger wench seemed touched, and he always took whatever any nigger said to him with a grain of salt.

  —Wait here a minute, he said.

  He walked inside, ignoring the pleas from the colored woman in her cell, and sat at his desk. He scrawled a hasty note on a piece of paper, strode to the door, and handed it to the young colored woman who waited.

  —Okay, Aunt Polly. Take this over to the general store and ask the old Hebrew there to give this to Mr. Beauford when he comes in to get his mail. Beauford Locke is his name. He’ll know what to do.

  The woman took the paper and stared at it, turning it back and forth in her hand, clearly not satisfied.

  —What’s the name again, sir?

  Herb frowned, snatched the paper back, folded it in half, and scrawled Beauford Locke on the folded sheet.

  —Just give it to the Hebrew there. In the general store. Just up the road.

  The woman stood firm.

  —I can’t go till you come, she said. Mary said Miss Kathleen said to make sure you come. Said it was an emergency.

  —I am coming. Just give that to the old Hebrew there.

  —When you coming?

  —You go on now. Tell her I’m coming soon as I can.

  The woman, clearly disappointed, turned and trotted quickly towards the village. He watched her dash into the general store clutching the note as though it were money, then closed the door and walked back into his own more pressing problems. The colored woman from the cell was belting it out, hollering at him loudly. It was all he could do not to take one of the empty oyster shells off the table and fling it at her.

  Inside the general store, Franz Mucheimmer was clearing stock from his shelves when a young Negro woman burst inside, grasping a note.

  —Sir, this got to go to Mr. Beauford. It’s from the constable.

  —Constable Travis’s out of town, ain’t he?

  —Whoever’s over there sent it. It’s mighty urgent, sir. Got to go to Mr. Beauford right off.

  Franz took the note and regarded the Negro woman. She was clearly distressed.

  —Somebody in trouble?

  —Jeff Boy, Missus Sullivan’s son Jeff Boy, he got snatched by the Devil!

  Franz was a Jewish immigrant from Bavaria. He did not trust his English. He felt he often said the wrong thing, saying one thing when he meant another. He wanted badly to travel to Baltimore to study English at the synagogue there, but the distance made it impossible. There wa
s a local woman who taught English at the local Presbyterian church every Tuesday night, but as a Jew, he was forbidden by Jewish law from entering the church. He had talked the woman into coming by the store once a week, but she was a volunteer and not always available. As a result, his English suffered. As he watched the sweating, nervous Negro in front of him, he decided to venture to the Presbyterian church next Tuesday and enter no matter what. It was the only way. Otherwise he would forever have this problem of misunderstanding, which he’d had last week when that crazy woman rough rider came by his store, by hollering about a saddle. When his friend Isaac came by the next day and told him who Patty was, Franz had nearly fainted. To travel so many thousands of miles to be shot by a woman in America is too much foolishness for you to bear, Isaac had insisted. Franz agreed. The problem of his not understanding English phrases, like the ones this colored woman was uttering just now, was a problem he aimed to fix. What she said about the Devil snatching someone, he was sure, was some kind of English expression.

  —Stay here a minute, he said. He called to the back for Clarence, his store helper.

  The old Negro, white-haired, serious, clad in an old tuxedo coat, and bent with age, emerged.

  —What’s she saying? Franz asked.

  From behind the counter, Clarence nodded at the nervous black woman, his eyes calm and alert.

  —Ain’t you Junius’s little girl Ella? From out the Gables’ house?

  —’Deed I am.

  —What’s wrong? Clarence asked.

  —Wrong? Miss Kathleen’s son got snatched in a hole by the Devil, that’s what’s wrong!

  Clarence’s thick white eyebrows frowned. He asked dryly, Which son?

  —Jeff Boy.

  —That’s her oldest, ain’t it?

  —God knows it is! Ella said, wringing her hands. And Wiley went to help him and he’s disappeared too.

  Clarence nodded. He knew Wiley.

  —Disappeared where, now? Clarence asked.

  —Down a hole.

  —Anybody seen it?

  —Miss Kathleen. Dog’s dead too, to hear Mary tell it. Kilt!

  —When?

  —This afternoon.

  —Where’s Amber?

  —I don’t know, Ella said. He’s round here someplace, getting supplies and fetching the constable. But ain’t no constable, that’s what the deputy said. You got to hurry. Miss Kathleen’s touched. She’s touched. Losing her mind, Mary says. I told the white man over at the constable’s there and he gived me this note to give to Mr. Locke.

  Clarence frowned. Beauford Locke was a waterman and a guzzler of firewater who served with the constable’s office when he was good and ready, usually only when there was a lost boat on the bay, and only after Beauford had helped himself to a bracer or two.

  He took the folded note from Ella and looked it over, turning it upside down and over in his hand. Then he looked at his boss.

  —Mr. Franz, you know I can’t read. But I reckon you ought to take a look at this. Mr. Locke ain’t due here till tomorrow to get his mail.

  Franz pursed his lips, doubtful. The last thing he wanted to do was open someone’s mail. As postmaster, that was in fact part of his job, to make sure no one looked at anyone else’s mail. Still, it sounded like an emergency, and Clarence, his store helper, was not one who took matters lightly.

  Franz took the folded note, then peered out the window at the constable’s jailhouse, which was just up the road.

  —I can’t read someone else’s mail, he said.

  —But it do sound important, Clarence said. Ella here, she ain’t one to smart someone off with a lie.

  Franz nodded. The last thing in the world he needed was to rankle his customers and make a nuisance of himself. He and his wife were the only Jews on the eastern shore between Baltimore and Ocean City. Quiet business was always better. He never liked having the postal part of his business. He wouldn’t have taken it, but it had come with the business when he bought it eight years earlier. Being the postmaster put him in the middle of everyone’s business. He had even changed the setup of his store, putting in tall shelves, several aisles, and only two chairs, to discourage hanging out and gossiping. For that, customers could go across the street to Homer Jones, who had a woodstove and a pot of homebrew for every waterman who wanted to sit around killing long winter evenings, shooting the breeze. Franz found gossiping to be despicable, although had he indulged in it, it would have helped his English immensely, for the litany of lies, gossip, and sin that passed the portals of the post office seemed to cover just about every interesting word in the English vocabulary that Franz could think of. In fact, it was his discretion more than his wares that made his business. He was sure of it. His customers trusted him: he never gossiped about their mail, who it came from, where it went, or what their packages might contain, their subscriptions, or the liaisons that seemed to grow, flourish, and sometimes die in the intersection of his store’s tiny aisles. It was not his business. His business was to win trust, not destroy it. Yet, this current crisis demanded action. It meant he had to involve himself, which was, he was certain, bad for business. Yet, he had no choice.

  —All right, then, he said. He turned to Ella: You wait here. I’m going across the street to talk to whoever wrote this. I’ll ask him to tell me what’s in it, then I’ll tell you what to do.

  At that moment, two white women customers entered the store. He placed the note down on the counter and walked from behind the counter to greet them. As Franz approached the customers, Clarence, with one eye on Franz’s wife, who was in the back unpacking crates, slipped a finger in the folded paper, ran his eyes over the words in the note, then folded it back again.

  As Ella fidgeted impatiently, Franz walked the women through the store, one woman haggling over the cost of a barrel of pickles. Franz, ever patient and calm, let the woman rant and finally gave it to her for fifty cents less than the listed price.

  Ella sat down on a chair in the back of the store and waited, burning with incredulousness, tapping her fingers and sweating. By the time Franz was finished and the women sauntered out of the store, a half hour had passed.

  —All right, he said to Ella. Sorry for the delay. Wait one minute. I’ll be right back.

  He picked up the note from the counter and Ella watched him exit the store, cross the road, briskly walk up the muddy street towards the constable’s jailhouse.

  Clarence, who had silently busied himself in the store in the meantime, watched as Ella shook in frustration, obviously upset. He approached her, patted her on the shoulder, and said, Now tell me what happened.

  —Blessed God Almighty, Jesus! Ella said, staring at Franz’s back. He don’t believe me, either.

  —Yes he do, Clarence said patiently. Don’t worry. Tell me what you know.

  —But what about him?

  —Don’t fret ’bout him, Clarence said, glancing at Franz’s retreating figure. I expect he’ll do the right thing.

  But that was easier said than done. Franz was a nervous wreck as he walked towards the jailhouse. He had a horrid feeling. Clarence was his barometer of information, and the old man seemed deeply troubled. Still, Franz had no idea what the woman was saying, but whatever it was, it was none of his business. He was breaking the most valuable lesson his father had ever taught him about survival as a Jew in America or anywhere else for that matter: Race, religion, and politics? Shhh! And this sounded like all three. White and colored business was always sticky stuff. He wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to turn around and leave. All of the constable’s men were locals, some of them drunks, and they made him nervous. And now he was walking right into their den. He promised himself as he approached the jailhouse that he would get out of the postmaster business somehow.

  He stepped up to the jailhouse door and knocked. No one answered. He heard desperate yelling. He opened the door, walked in, and heard panicked shouting, as Herbie Tucker had a crisis on his hands.

  The Negro runaway
was in near revolt, hollering from hunger. Herb hadn’t thought to send over to the Tin Teacup to get his Negro prisoners anything to eat for two days, and the woman was furious. Franz followed the sounds of the shouting to the back of the jailhouse to find Herbie in the woman’s cell, wrestling her onto a cot, while on the floor a Negro boy, his leg clumsily bandaged up to the hip, lay in a near-comatose state. It took Franz nearly an hour to help Herb get the whole business straightened out, running back and forth to his general store for food and medicine for the woman and the boy, who looked so thin and awful that Franz thought the boy would die even as he fed him. The old Jew felt his heart breaking as he felt the boy’s pencil-thin arms, lifting the child’s head and feeding him as the boy lay on the cold cell floor, breathing laboriously, while Herbie, frustrated, stood over him, thanking Franz and cursing the child.

  Finally, when the prisoners had been mollified and all was quiet, just as he was about to leave, Franz got up the nerve to pull the note out of his pocket and mention it to the sheriff ’s deputy. By then two precious hours had passed.

  —Oh, that, Herb said, waving his hand. It ain’t nothing. You can read it.

  Franz unfolded the note, which read: Nigger girl says a devil’s loose out on Joya’s Neck. Get a boat out on the water and see old Boyd’s widow Kathleen.

  Franz folded the note, thanked Herb, and returned to his store.

  It was already night when he walked through his store’s front door. It was dark inside; Ella had gone home. Franz walked along the row of neatly lined mail slots, placed the note inside Beauford Locke’s mailbox, and went upstairs to bed. The next morning he woke up with a roaring, pounding headache. From behind his counter, he watched Beauford Locke’s mailbox all day with stars in his eyes. By nightfall, the note was still there.

  speak to the pot

  The rain had ceased by early morning, and Amber rose, exhausted, to find it still drizzling lightly. They were sitting on the boat outside Cambridge City. Amber had tied the bungy to a thick grove of trees on a creek off the Choptank River, where they had rested for a couple of hours, but now it was time to move. He had been gone from Miss Kathleen’s nearly nine hours.