Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick

by Zora Neale Hurston

  In the swamp at the head of the lake, she saw a Jack-O-Lantern darting here and there and three hundred years of America passed like the mist of morning. Africa reached out its dark hand and claimed its own. Drums, tom, tom, tom, tom, tom, beat in her ears. Strange demons seized her. Witch doctors danced before her, laid hands upon her alternately freezing and burning her flesh, until she found herself within the house of Morgan.

  She was not permitted to tell her story. She opened her mouth but the old man chewed a camphor leaf or two, spat into a small pail of sand and asked:

  “How do yuh wanta kill ’im? By water, by sharp edge, or a bullet?”

  The old woman almost fell off of the chair in amazement that he knew her mind. He merely chuckled a bit and handed her a drinking gourd.

  “Dip up a teeny bit of water an’ po’ hit on de flo’,—by dat time you’ll know.”

  She dipped the water out of a wooden pail and poured it upon the rough floor.

  “Ah wanta shoot him, but how kin ah ’thout . . .”—

  “Looka heah,” Morgan directed and pointed to a huge mirror scarred and dusty. He dusted its face carefully. “Look in dis glass ’thout turnin’ yo’ head an’ when he comes, you shoot tuh kill. Take good aim!”

  Both faced about and gazed hard into the mirror that reached from floor to ceiling. Morgan turned once to spit into the pail of sand. The mirror grew misty, darker, near the center, then Mrs. Boger saw Beau walk to the center of the mirror and stand looking at her, glaring and sneering. She all but fainted in superstitious terror.

  Morgan thrust the gun into her hand. She saw the expression on Beau Diddely’s face change from scorn to fear and she laughed.

  “Take good aim,” Morgan cautioned. “You cain’t shoot but once.”

  She leveled the gun at the heart of the apparition in the glass and fired. It collapsed; the mirror grew misty again, then cleared.

  In horror she flung her money at the old man who seized it greedily, and fled into the darkness, dreading nothing, thinking only of putting distance between her and the house of Morgan.

  * * *

  The next day Eatonville was treated to another thrill.

  It seemed that Beau Diddely, the darling of the ladies, was in the hotel yard making love to another chamber-maid. In order that she might fully appreciate what a great victory was hers, he was reciting the Conquest of Docia, how she loved him, pursued him, knelt down and kissed his feet, begging him to marry her,—when suddenly he stood up very straight, clasped his hand over his heart, grew rigid and fell dead.

  The coroner’s verdict was death from natural causes—heart failure. But they were mystified by what looked like a powder burn directly over the heart.

  But the Negroes knew instantly when they saw that mark, but everyone agreed that he got justice. Mrs. Boger and Docia moved to Jacksonville where she married well.

  And the white folks never knew and would have laughed had anyone told them,—so why mention it?

  The Bone of Contention

  Eatonville, Florida is a colored town and has its colored interests. It has not now, nor ever has had anything to rank Brazzle’s yellow mule. His Yaller Highness was always mentioned before the weather, the misery of the back or leg, or the hard times.

  The mule was old, rawbony and mean. He was so rawbony that he creaked as he ambled about the village street with his meanness shining out through every chink and cranny in his rattling anatomy. He worked little, ate heartily, fought every inch of the way before the plow and even disputed with Brazzle when he approached to feed him. Sale, exchange or barter was out of the question, for everybody in the county knew him.

  But one day he died. Everybody was glad, including Brazzle. His death was one of those pleasant surprises that people hope for, but never expect to happen.

  The city had no refuse plant so H.Y.H. went the way of all other domestic beasts who died among us. Brazzle borrowed Watson’s two grey plugs and dragged the remains out to the edge of the cypress swamp, three miles beyond city limits and abandoned them to the natural scavengers. The town attended the dragging out to a man. The fallen gladiator was borne from the arena on his sharp back, his feet stiffly raised as if a parting gesture of defiance. We left him on the edge of the cypress swamp and returned to the village satisfied that the only piece of unadulterated meanness that the Lord had ever made was gone from among us forever.

  Three years passed and his bones were clean and white. They were scattered along the swamp edge. The children still found them sufficiently interesting to tramp out to gaze upon them on Sunday afternoons. The elders neglected his bones, but the mule remained with them in song and story as a simile, as a metaphor, to point a moral or adorn a tale. But as the mean old trouble-making cuss, they considered him gone for good.

  II

  It was early night in the village. Joe Clarke’s store porch was full of chewing men. Some chewed tobacco, some chewed cane, some chewed straws, for the villager is a ruminant in his leisure. They sat thus every evening ostensibly waiting for the mail from Number 38, the south-bound express. It was seldom that any of them got any but it gave them a good excuse to gather. They all talked a great deal, and every man jack of them talked about himself. Heroes all, they were, of one thing or another.

  Ike Pearson had killed a six-foot rattler in a mighty battle that grew mightier every time Ike told about it; Walter Thomas had chinned the bar twenty times without stopping; Elijah Moseley had licked a “cracker”; Brazzle had captured a live catamount; Hiram Lester had killed a bear; Sykes Jones had won the soda-cracker eating contest; AND JOE CLARKE HAD STARTED THE TOWN!

  Reverend Simms, the Methodist preacher, a resident of less than a year, had done nothing to boast of, but it was generally known that he aspired to the seat of Joe Clarke. He wanted to be the mayor. He had observed to some of his members that it wasnt no sense in one man staying in office all the time.

  “Looka heah,” Clarke cut across whoever it was that [was] talking at the time, “when Ah started dis town, Ah walked right up to de white folks an’ laid down TWO HUN’DED DOLLARS WID DIS RIGHT HAND YOU SEE BEFO’ YOU AN’ GOT MAH PAPERS AN’ PUT DIS TOWN ON DE MAP! It takes uh powerful lot uh sense an’ grit tuh start uh town, yessirree!”

  “Whut map did you put it on, Joe?” Lindsay disrespectfully asked. “Ah aint seed it on no map.”

  Seeing Clarke gored [him] to his liver. Rev. Simms let out a gloating snicker and tossed a cane knot to Tippy, the Lewis’ dejected dog frame hovering about the group hoping for something more tempting to a dog’s palate than cane chews and peanut shells might drop. He tossed the knot and waited for Clarke to answer. His Honor ignored the thrust as being too low for him to stoop and talked on. Was he not mayor, postmaster, storekeeper and Pooh Bah general? Insults must come to him from at least the county seat.

  “Nother thing,” Clarke continued, giving Simms a meaning look, “there’s a heap goin’ on ’round heah under the cover dat Ahm gointer put a stop to. Jim Weston done proaged through mah hen house enough. Last Sat’day Ah missed three uh mah bes’ layin’ hens, an’ Ah been tol’ he buried feathers in his backyard the very next day. Cose Ah caint prove nothin’, but de minute he crooks his little finger, he goes ’way from mah town. He aint de onliest one Ah got mah eye on neither.”

  Simms accepted the challenge thrown at him.

  “Fact is, the town aint run lak it might be. We oughta stop dat foolishness of runnin’ folks outa town. We oughta jail ’em. They’s got jails in all de other towns, an’ we oughta bring ours up to date!”

  “Ah’ll be henfired! Simms, you tries to know mo’ ’bout runnin’ de town than me! Dont you reckon a man thats got sense enough to start uh town, knows how tuh run it. Dont you reckon if de place had uh needed uh jailhouse Ah would have got one built ’long befo’ you come heah?”

  “We do so need a jail,” Lindsay contended. “Jus’ cause you stahted the town, dat dont mean yo’ mouf no prayer book nor neither yo’ lips no Bible. Th
ey dont flap lak none tuh me.”

  Lindsay was a little shriveled up man with gray hair and bow-legs. He was the smallest man in the village, who nevertheless did the most talk of fighting. That was because the others felt he was too small for them to hit. He was harmless, but known to be the nastiest threatener in the county.

  Clarke merely snorted contemptuously at his sally and remarked dryly that the road was right there for all those who were not satisfied with the way he was running the town.

  “Meaning to insult me?” Lindsay asked belligerently.

  “Ah dont keer HOW yuh take it. Jus’ take yo’ rawbony cow an’ gwan tuh de woods, fuh all I keer,” Clarke answered.

  Lindsay leaped from the porch and struck his fighting pose. “Jus’ hit de ground an’ Ah’ll strow yuh all over Orange County! Aw, come on! Come on! Youse a big seegar, but Ah kin smoke yuh!”

  Clarke looked at the little man, old, and less than half his size, and laughed. Walter Thomas and ’Lige Mosely rushed to Lindsay and pretended to restrain him.

  “That’s right,” Lindsay panted, “you better hold me offen him. Cause if I lay de weight uh dis right hand on him, he wont forget it long as he live.”

  “Aw, shet up, Lin’say, an’ set down. If you could fight as good as you kin threaten, you’d be world’s champeen ’stead uh Jack Dempsey. Some uh dese days when youse hollerin’ tuh be let loose, somebody’s gointer take you at yo’ word, then it will be jus’ too bad about yuh,” Lester admonished.

  “Who?—”

  The war was about to begin all over on another front when Dave Carter, the local Nimrod, walked, almost ran up the steps of [the] porch. He was bareheaded, excited and even in the poor light that seeped to the porch from the oil lamps within, it was seen that he was bruised and otherwise unusually mussed up.

  “Mist’ Clarke, Ah wants tuh see yuh,” he said. “Come on inside.”

  “Sholy, Dave, sholy.” The mayor responded and followed the young man into the store and the corner reserved for City Administration. The crowd from the porch followed to a man.

  Dave wiped a bruise spot on his head. “Mist’ Clarke, Ah wants uh warrant took out fuh Jim Weston. Ahm gointer law him outa dis town. He caint lam me over mah head wid no mule bone and steal mah turkey and go braggin’ about it!”

  Under the encouraging quiz of the mayor, Dave told his story. He was a hunter and fisherman, as everybody knew. He had discovered a drove of wild turkeys roosting in the trees along the edge of the cypress swamp near the spot where Brazzle’s old mule had been left. He had watched them for weeks, had seen the huge gobbler that headed the flock and resolved to get him.

  “Yes,” agreed Clarke, “you said something to me about it yesterday when you bought some shells.”

  “Yes, and thats how Jim knowed Ah was goin’ turkey huntin’. He was settin’ on de store porch and heard me talkin’ to you. Today when Ah started out, jes ’bout sundown—dats de bes’ time tuh get turkeys, when they goes tuh roost—he ups and says he’s goin’ long. Ah didnt keer ’bout dat, but when them birds goes tuh roost, he aint even loaded, so Ah had shot dat gobbler befo’ he took aim. When he see dat great big gobbler fallin’ he fires off his gun and tries tuh grab him. But Ah helt on. We got tuh pushin’ and shovin’ and tusslin’ ’till we got to fightin’. Jim’s a bully, but Ah wuz beatin’ his socks offa him ’till he retched down and picked up de hock-bone of Brazzle’s ol’ mule and lammed me ovah mah head wid it and knocked me out. When Ah come to, he had done took mah turkey and gone. Ah wants uh warrant, Mist’ Clarke. Ahm gointer law him outa dis town.”

  “An’ you sho gointer get [him], Dave. He oughter be run out. Comes from bad stock. Every last one of his brothers been run out as fast as they grow up. Daddy hung for murder.”

  Clarke busied himself with the papers. The crowd looking on and commenting.

  “See whut you Meth’dis’ niggahs will do?” asked Brazzle, a true Baptist. “Goin’ round lammin’ folks ovah the head an’ stealin they turkeys.”

  “Cose everybody knows dem Westons is a set uh bullies, but you Baptists aint such a much,” Elijah Moseley retorted.

  “Yas, but Ah know yuh know,” put in Lindsay. “No Baptis’ aint never done nothin’ bad as dat. Joe Clarke is right. Jail is too good fuh ’em. The last one uh these half-washed Christians oughta be run ’way from heah.”

  “When it comes tuh dat, theres jus’ as many no count Baptists as anybody else. Jus’ aint caught ’em,” Thomas said, joining the fray.

  “Yas,” Lindsay retorted, “but we done kotched yo’ Meth’dis’ niggah. Kotched him knockin’ people ovah de head wid mule bones an’ stealin’ they turkeys, an’ wese gointer run him slap outa town sure as gun’s iron. The dirty onion!”

  “We dont know whether you will or no, Joe Lindsay. You Baptists aint runnin’ this town exactly.”

  “Trial set for three o’clock tomorrow at de Baptis’ church, that being the largest meetin’ place in the town,” Clarke announced with a satisfied smile and persuaded the men to go back to the porch to argue.

  Clarke, himself was a Methodist, but in this case, his interests lay with the other side. If he could get Jim to taste the air of another town, chicken mortality, of the sudden and unexplained variety, would drop considerably, he was certain. He was equally certain that the ambitious Simms would champion Jim’s cause and losing the fight, lose prestige. Besides, Jim was a troublesome character. A constant disturber of the village peace.

  III

  It was evident to the simplest person in the village long before three o’clock that this was to be a religious and political fight. The assault and the gobbler were unimportant. Dave was a Baptist, Jim a Methodist, only two churches in the town and the respective congregations had lined up solidly.

  At three the house was full. The defendant had been led in and seated in the amen corner to the left of the pulpit. Rev. Simms had taken his place beside the prisoner in the role of defense counsel. The plaintiff, with Elder Long, shepherd of the Baptist flock in the capacity of prosecution, was seated at the right. The respective congregations were lined up behind their leaders.

  Mutual glances of despisement and gloating are exchanged across the aisle. Not a few verbal sorties were made during this waiting period as if they were getting up steam for the real struggle.

  Wize Anderson (Meth.) Look at ole Dave tryin’ to make out Jim hurt his head! Yuh couldnt hurt a Baptist head wid a hammer—they’re that hard.

  Brother Poke (Bapt.) Well, anyhow we dont lie an’ steal an’ git run outa town lak de softhead Meth’dis niggahs.

  Some Baptist wag looked over at Jim and crowed like a rooster, the others took it up immediately and the place was full of hen-cackling and barnyard sounds. The implication was obvious. Jim stood up and said, “If I had dat mule bone heah, Ahd teach a few mo’ uh you mud-turtles something.” Enter His Honor at this moment. Lum Boger pompously conducted him to his place, the pulpit, which was doing duty as the bench for the occasion. The assembly unconsciously moderated its tone. But from the outside could still be heard the voices of the children engaged in fisticuffy trials of the case.

  The mayor began rapping for order at once. “Cote is set. Cote is set! Looka heah, DIS COTE IS DONE SET! Ah wants you folks tuh dry up.”

  The courtroom grew perfectly still. The mayor prepared to read the charge to the prisoner, when Brother Stringer (Meth.) entered, hot and perspiring with coat over his arm. He found a seat near the middle of the house against the wall. To reach it, he must climb over the knees of a bench length of people. Before seating himself, he hung his coat upon an empty lamp bracket above his head.

  Sister Lewis, of the Baptist persuasion, arose at once, her hands akimbo, her eyes flashing.

  “Brothah Stringah, you take yo’ lousy coat down off dese sacred walls! Aint you Methdis got no gumption in the house uh washup?”

  Stringer did not answer her, but he cast over a glance that said as plain as day ‘Just try and make me do it!’
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  Della Lewis snorted, but Stringer took his seat complacently. He took his seat, but rose up again as if he had sat on a hot needle point. The reason for this was that Brother Hambo on the Baptist side, a nasty scrapper, rose and rolled his eyes to the fighting angle, looking at Stringer. Stringer caught the look, and hurriedly pawed that coat down off that wall.

  Sister Taylor (M) took up the gauntlet dropped like a hot potato by Stringer. “Some folks,” she said with a meaning look, “is a whole lot moh puhticalar bout a louse in they church than they is in they house.” A very personal look at Sister Lewis.

  “Well,” said that lady, “mah house mought not be exactly clean but nobody caint say dat”—indicating an infinitesimal amount on the end of her finger—“about my chaRACter! They didnt hafta git de sheriff to make Ike marry ME!”

  Mrs. Taylor leaped to her feet and struggled to cross the aisle to her traducer but was restrained by three or four men. “Yas, they did git de sheriff tuh make Sam marry me!” She shouted as she panted and struggled. “And Gawd knows you sho oughter git him agin and make some of these men marry yo’ Ada!”

  Mrs. Lewis now had to be restrained. She gave voice and hard, bone-breaking words flew back and forth across the aisle. Each was aided and abetted by her side of the house. His Honor was all the time beating the pulpit with his gavel and shouting for order. At last he threatened to descend in person upon the belligerents.

  “Heah! You moufy wimmen! Shet up. Aint Ah done said cote was set? Lum Boger, do yo’ duty. Make them wimmen dry up or put ’em outa heah.”

  Marshall Boger who wore his star for the occasion was full of the importance of his office for nineteen is a prideful age; he hurried over to Mrs. Taylor. She rose to meet him. “You better gwan ’way from me, Lum Boger. Ah jes’ wish you would lay de weight of yo’ han’ on me! Ahd kick yo’ close up round yo’ neck lak a horse-collar. You impident limb you.”

  Lum retreated before the awful prospect of wearing his suit about his neck like a horse-collar. He crossed the aisle to the fiery Della and frowned upon her. She was already standing and ready to commence hostilities. One look was enough. He said nothing, but her threats followed him down the aisle as he retreated to the vestibule to shoo the noisy children away. The women subsided and the Mayor began.