Five Smooth Stones

by Ann Fairbairn

  "I hope you are right," said Goodhue. "What is his name?"

  "Champlin." Knudsen gave it the French pronunciation, as had his brother, and David, and David's grandfather.

  There was a sucking, gurgling sound as Goodhue drew on his pipe. His eyebrows were raised in interrogation. "He has another name, no doubt?"

  Knudsen frowned. "David," he answered. "David Champlin."

  "I grew up with those people," said Goodhue. "I find it hard to adopt the more formal usages." He smiled. "We understand these things better. I am glad he is from the South. The Negroes from the North seem somehow unnatural to me. Negroes from the South, if they are the right sort, have more charm as a rule, more malleability."

  Knudsen, who had perched himself like a small, enthusiastic bird on the arm of one of the chairs that flanked the fireplace, did not speak for a moment His eyes were not on Goodhue when he answered, and his voice was flat and uninflected.

  "Ja," he said, and stood. "Ja. Well." He walked to the door. "I must find Mrs. Knudsen. I must help her dispose of some of those delicious fish sandwiches your good wife prepares."

  CHAPTER 14

  David Champlin did not hear his grandfather's step coming up the walk. He was sitting in the dining room reading, the heel of his good foot cocked on the edge of the table. He dropped the foot hastily to the floor because Gramp was already on the porch when he heard him, and when Li'l Joe got to the screen door he would be able to see in, through the sitting room to the dining room and kitchen beyond, and would be vexed at the sight of a foot, even his grandson's, on the dining-room table. The light was in David's eyes as he turned and faced the front door. Only after his grandfather had entered the living room was he able to see that there was something in his hands besides his lunch pail, a square something with a handle. He started toward his grandfather, but Li'l Joe brushed past him and went to the kitchen where the tabletop was clear. He put his burden carefully on the table and stood back. "You better shut your door when you use it, son," he said. "I needs my sleep."

  David stood without speaking, beyond speech. Beside him a soft voice said: "Ain't you going to open it, son? Don't you want to look and see is it all right?"

  David unlatched the cover, raised it gently, and the keys of the portable typewriter seemed to smile up at him. He reached out and touched one, but the carriage did not move, and one of Gramp's long, slender fingers reached out, touching a lever pridefully. "Now try it, son."

  David touched another key, then pulled his hand back. It wouldn't be good for the platen, letting the keys hit it without paper in the machine. It would work, he could tell that.

  "Gosh, Gramp," he said at last. "Gosh. It's—it's super. It's —it's an awful lot."

  "Lawd!" said Gramp. "I can do it. I got a little put by. I could have bought it all at once, only I got it on payments. They're not much. Not enough to hurt. You want to try it?" He moved forward and looked down at the keyboard in frowning concentration, his eyes searching. "That man showed it to me just as plain." He was talking half to himself. "Just as plain as can be, and now I can't find it It's got—it's got tab—taber—"

  "Tabulation," said David. "A tabulator key." He pointed it out. He did not turn his head. He knew his grandfather's eyes were shining so brightly that he would not trust himself to look at them. "They're the best kind, Gramp. The deluxe kind." He paused, then added, "Most expensive kind, too. You—you shouldn't have—"

  "Ain't no sense in spending money for something half good," said Joseph Champlin. "Not if you can help it Figured you might need that tab—taber—that key there. All my life I've had to put up with things half good—or worse'n that, secondhanded. I figured to start you off with something all good, bran-new." He grinned. "Damned near the only real good, bran-new thing ever come through that door. You happy with it, suits me."

  "Happy with it!" David was whispering. "Gee, Gramp." He couldn't think of anything to say, hoped Gramp somehow could feel the gratitude, the warmth, the love—but not the lump in his throat

  He closed the lid as gently as a mother covering a sleeping baby and carried the typewriter into the dining room, clearing a place for it on the table. Joseph Champlin went to the sink in the kitchen and started washing up. Through the splashing David could hear the low voice.

  "Thought mebbe I'd surprise you and carry it to the train, the day you left. Then I thought"—there was a pause, a louder splashing, a "brr-rr-rr-" and the voice went on—"then I thought that wasn't no good. You going to be mighty busy once you gets up there. You're not going to have no time for fussing and learning anything except your lessons. Did you see, David? It's got a book goes with it, how to teach yourself. You got most all summer to learn when you ain't working or studying. You see it, son? In the cover?"

  "I seen it—saw it, Gramp. It's swell. And they've got a night class at the high school. Mostly all girls, but that doesn't matter." He walked to the screen door and looked out Gramp would know he couldn't talk, couldn't find words.

  It could hardly be called air, the heavy, humid outside atmosphere that was coming through the screen door. Behind him there was the quiet whir of the big fan in the window over the kitchen sink. Outside, the little street sweltered, still weighed down with the burden of stale heat from the breathless day that was ending. David walked out on the porch and stood on the top of the steps, hands plunged deep into his pockets.

  Across the roadway, which would be soft and sticky from the merciless assault of the earlier sun, the Timmins twins tumbled and played, fat brown bodies dusty from the ground. Their mother would be out in a minute, or one of the older kids, to pick them up, dust them off, scold, paddle plump bottoms briskly but with love. On the porch of the old gray house next to the Timminses', ol' Miz Speck sat, rocking. She would be half asleep, David thought, like a tired child. When her daughter came out and spoke to her gently, she would waken quickly, pretending she had not been dozing. Her daughter would help her to her feet, supporting her into the house, and inside would feed her as Gramp and Gram must once have fed him, with a spoon and coaxing words.

  But this evening ol' Miz Speck was more alert; David had been mistaken to think her dozing, for as he looked at her he saw her head crane forward, knew the dark eyes with the gray rings around the irises were trying to focus. He saw one black, gnarled hand raised toward him, could tell the lips were moving over the toothless gums, knew she was saying, "Evenin', evenin', son!" He waved back and called out. "Evenin', Miz Speck! You feeling good this evenin'?" The old head bobbed delightedly, and he could hear her cackle of laughter and the words, like the echo of a strong voice, "Doin' fine, son. Doin' fine for a young un," and the cackle of laughter again.

  In a little while Bucky Harris would be coming up the street, bowlegged, heavy with muscle and fat, sweaty, and more than likely roaring drunk; mean drunk and cursing, and there would be another fight in the little shack in the back, between Miz Timmins's house and ol' Miz Speck's house. And, just as probably, the police again, "What's she stay with him for, Gramp?" he had asked Li'l Joe Champlin. "What's a woman want to stay with a man like that for?" Gramp had shrugged. "Gawd knows, son. No telling what makes a woman stay with a man. She ain't no better than what he is, though. I can tell you that. She drunk most of the day, he drunk most of the night. Hard to say what makes folks do like they do. They been together a long time, and drunk most of it."

  The slam of the screen door of the house next to the Champlins' was like a rifle shot in the quiet sultriness, and the rat-tat-rat-tat of Edna Mae's heels like shots from a machine gun. David heard them go down the steps and along the walk. He did not turn his head or his eyes. He knew without looking, when the rat-tat stopped, that she was fixing her white gloves, worrying with a belt, killing time, waiting for him to turn. The sound of the high heels was louder, sharper, when it came again, going down the street, the sharp crack of the high heels of a frustrated woman.

  Across the street a fat Timmins twin wailed, and there were loud voices from inside
the house. A lanky girl, all arms and legs, her skin almost pure black, ran through the screen door that had plugs of newspapers in its holes. She gathered up both fat brown bodies, one under each arm, both twins wailing now. The wails faded, stopped when she went in the door and it closed behind her. In a few minutes, David knew, the whole Timmins tribe would be sitting at the kitchen table, the twins dusted off and bibbed, round brown faces smeared with food, gurgling with happiness. All the Timmins kids, when they had been babies, had looked like the twins. David couldn't have counted how many times he had picked how many Timmins babies off the floor or off the ground when he had been spending every day over there; how many times he'd heard their mother yell shrilly at them, then seen her pick them up and gentle them, feed them.

  He couldn't have remembered, either, how many times he'd heard her say, there at the kitchen table, as she was probably saying right now, "It's Joey's (or Ginnie's or Stella's or David's) turn to ask the blessing. Y'all be quiet, y'hear!" He remembered that when it had been his turn all during the short time he was solemnly (Mrs. Timmins would not stand for a hurried blessing) saying the blessing, there would be the soft thump-thump of various bare Timmins heels on chair rungs. He would peek up from under his eyebrows and see Mrs. Timmins frowning; then after he had said, "for-Jesus-sake, Amen," the frown would be lost in her frenzied efforts to keep all the dishes upright on the table as a half-dozen pairs of hands grabbed for them.

  Bucky Harris had come home now, even drunker than usual. You could hear both Bucky and his wife cursing and yelling. Next door Edna Mae's mother had turned up the volume of the radio so she could hear it when she was in the kitchen, and the strident voice of a blues shouter drowned the quiet sounds of Gramp in the kitchen making supper.

  Gramp hadn't raised any objections when he'd been accepted by Pengard, although under the little man's quiet pride David had sensed the worry, and something more—apprehension. And there was the knowledge of how lonely Gramp would be after he left. He tried not to think of Gramp's loneliness when that day came, and he wished for the ten-thousandth time that he could be like some of the other kids, his friends, who didn't much care how their parents or the older folks felt as long as they got their own way. Me, I've always got to be worrying about how somebody else feels, thought David. Always knowing how they feel, especially Gramp.

  Gramp's voice behind him made him jump. "Don't you want supper, David? You better get in here and get washed up."

  When he walked through the dining room he stopped at the table, picked up a piece of paper, and ran it into the machine. Gramp turned in the kitchen doorway. "I asked the Prof about it, David. He said you oughtn't to use it much till you learn touch system. He says the more you uses your own hunt-and-peck system, the more you messes yourself up for learning touch system."

  "Gramp," said David. "Gramp, did I say thank you?"

  Joseph Champlin smiled, eyes as bright as black diamonds. "Sure, son," he said. "Sure, you said thank you. You get yourse'f a plate now and start dishing up the rice while it's hot. Wash up first"

  ***

  After supper David said, "Gramp, you want to go to the show? It's Saturday."

  "Ain't you got no place to go, David?"

  David laughed. "Sure. Sure, I got lots of places to go. Only, I sort of wanted to go to the show. My treat."

  "Getting mighty rich all of a sudden; where'd you get all that kind of money? Never mind, son. That's your money. None of my business."

  "It's an animal picture taken in Africa. Tiger, Tiger. You've been reading about it. They've got it at the Lyceum."

  Li'l Joe's eyes lighted, and the slow, wide smile came, then faded.

  "You go on, David. Go on and take one of them girls that's always calling you up every night, talking for a couple hours, never leaving me in peace to enjoy my programs."

  "You feeling all right, Gramp? I said it was an animal picture. From Africa. Rudy says it's the best he ever saw. You like those."

  Gramp pushed his chair back, picked up his dishes and walked to the sink, his grandson trailing after him, towering over him. "Don't think so, son." He spoke quietly. "Last time I went I got took real bad at the top of them stairs. Had me a right sharp pain and couldn't get my breath good. Reckon when colored starts getting old they ain't supposed to go to no good movies. 'Nigger heaven,' they calls it. I sure as hell thought it was going to be heaven for me, just for a few minutes there, top of them steps."

  David stood for a long moment without speaking. His spine felt cold, and the skin on his body prickled with fear for Gramp, while a searing flame of sick rage started at the pit of his stomach and seemed to consume him. He tried to stop his legs from shaking, fought to keep his hands steady. "Sons of bitches," he said.

  Joseph Champlin turned to him. "Ain't no use talking like that, David. No use at all. There's nothing you can do about it."

  "I can get out! So can you! Gramp, come with me. Huh, Gramp? You can get work in Laurel. I know—I've been there. There's colored working all over. Easy work. And if you can't get work, I can take care of you. I'm going to work. How bad were you sick, Gramp? How bad? Whyn't you tell me when you came home? Whyn't you tell me! I'd have taken you to a doctor. I'd have made you see a doctor!"

  "So-so, David, so-so. You was up there in Ohio. Go in and turn on the radio so's it'll warm up. I wasn't took too bad. Just a pain, and I had the shorts for a few minutes, trying to breathe. That's all it was. Mygawdalmighty, David, I wouldn't of told you if I'd known you was going to raise a sand like this."

  "Answer me, Gramp! Why can't you come with me?"

  "You going to do them dishes, boy?"

  "Later. I'll do 'em later."

  David's anger was turned on bis grandfather now. He was infuriated by the implacable stubbornness of this little man who wouldn't give a straight answer, would only shunt him off. Gramp had always been able to anger him this way, irritate him to the point of shouting. It was as though the old man didn't hear him, but David knew he did. Sooner or later he would answer, but David knew it would not be until Li'l Joe felt his grandson's temper had cooled.

  Gramp, the dishes stacked and rinsed, said, "You turn on the radio?"

  David shook his head, still angry, still irritated, and limped to the radio in the living room. As he switched it on, he muttered under his breath, "Stubborn old goat, stubborn old goat."

  He emptied the ashtray on the end table beside his grandfather's chair, wiping it out with a Kleenex from a box beside it. Gramp's got the sniffles again, he thought.

  Li'l Joe came in, as he always did, carrying a bottle of beer in one hand, glass and opener in the other. He put them beside the radio on the table and before he sat down took his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his shirt and laid them beside the ashtray, on a spot carefully calculated to need the least reaching. "Always make it easy for yourse'f," he'd say. "Ain't nobody else going to do it for you." He sat down, and with the sides of his feet maneuvered the battered old hassock into the exact position that would give him maximum comfort. He glanced at his watch. "Too early for the news," he said. He started to unfold the evening paper.

  "Gramp," said David. "Gramp, did you think I was kidding when I said why didn't you come with me to Ohio?"

  "Didn't think you was kidding. Just thought you was talking foolish."

  "Why! Why was I talking foolish?"

  Joseph Champlin sighed and laid the paper half unfolded back on his knee. "Look, David. You know Jim Stacey? Stays over by St. Anne Street?"

  "Sure I know him. What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Him and me went to school together. Near where the Ursuline Convent is now. Every morning his ma would bring him to the school, and every evening she'd come and get him. My own ma told me how all during the first week he was there she used to stay round the school-house all day till going-home time. Us kids gave him a bad time. Had to have his mamma bring him to school and take him home. What you-all think those other boys up there at that collidge goin
g to think? Big lummox like you bringing your grandaddy with you! You just ain't got real good sense, boy."

  David, standing by the mantel, looked down at his grandfather's face and said: "You've been studying about it,

  Gramp. Even before I said anything, you'd been studying about it."

  "S'pose I had?"

  "Then I wasn't talking too foolish."

  "Mebbe so, mebbe not." The long wrinkles on Li'l Joe's cheeks bracketed his mouth as he smiled. "Besides, who'd take care of them chickens?"

  "Chickens! Sweet Jesus, Gramp! Chickens! You could sell those chickens! You're too chicken yourself to kill 'em and eat 'em. You could sell 'em. Sell the house, too."

  "Reckon I could, son. Sell them chickens, I mean. Lots of good dinners out there in that yard. Smothered. They too old for frying. Still, I makes a pretty fair piece of change out of them eggs now and then. But I ain't going to sell no house, David. You're mighty young, son, to try and tell an old man coming on for his social security to sell a house he saved pennies for. You'll see someday, David. You're going on for a grown man now, but some ways you still ain't nothing but a chile."

  "But suppose you got sick? You're too damned hardheaded and stubborn to call a doctor. If you had a heart attack or something, you'd rub yourself with b'ar grease and think you were O.K., I swear you would. Look what you just told me. Getting the shorts climbing those Goddamned Jim Crow stairs. And a pain. How do you know you haven't got heart trouble? Hard as you've worked all your life, it's a wonder you've got a heart. What were you telling me the other day about that foreman who keeps wanting you to quit grading and come back on the unloading gang? One of these days you're going to be just stupid enough to say 'yes.' What you weigh now? Hundred and ten?"

  "Look, son—"

  "You just let me talk. 'Ain't nothing but a chile!' You know the Bible a hell of a lot better than I do... you know where it says out of the mouths of babes and stuff. All right, you just listen to this babe."