"Cripes!" He played louder, striking random chords, to cover his voice. "Y'all know better than that, sugah. That ain't what the man wants. We going to give 'em what the man wants." That would rile her, really rile her, especially "the man." And that was good, because maybe she'd turn loose and sing.
He let the chords run naturally into the opening of "He's My Lily of the Valley," singing it himself with a low, soft insistence. " 'He's my lily of the valley,' " stopped singing to say under his breath, "Come on, Margaret. You know it; you have to know it, coming from where you do. It's a good one. You can sing the devil out of it—'... everybody don't know, everybody don't know, what Jesus means, what Jesus means...' Come on. I'll start her over again." He brought it into a key her voice could handle better, confined his own voice to low humming answers to the phrases, then heard her really take hold of the melody, knew by the sureness of her attack that he had been right when he said, "You got to know it"; knew she had heard and sung it in childhood in some little church or hall in Louisiana, a piano behind the voices, breaking the melody up, rippling beneath it, stating it with a voice of its own. He upped the tempo a little, transposed to a slightly higher key, and had his reward: Margaret's voice soaring, as Gram's used to, over everyone's head, then beyond them, through the walls and the windows, soaring over the endless expanses of the world. Now Nehemiah's voice came from behind him, piercing, poignant, and he gave them both the support of his own voice, rich and strong, and they rode it out together.
While he searched his memory for another spiritual or hymn, he found himself striking the opening chords of one of Gram's favorites: "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?" and suddenly Nehemiah was taking it away from him, and his own hands were hurrying to keep up. Now Margaret's voice was the answering one, letting Nehemiah's make the statements, ask the burning question, "Were you there?" knowing so unerringly when to step down, to give over to another's message, strengthening it, yet not appropriating it.
Small chills ran up and down his spine and back, and he could almost feel the muscles over his ribs twitching. Something made him turn his head to bring Nehemiah into his line of vision, and the chills transferred abruptly to his belly and became the gripping cold of apprehension. Nehemiah was off and he'd be running without a bridle if someone didn't stop him. David slowed his tempo against the insistent drive of Nehemiah's voice, broke the rhythm down into solid beats and let the chords signal a ride-out. He sighed with relief when Nehemiah's voice stopped with the piano; Margaret's had stopped a few bars earlier. But it was only Nehemiah's singing voice that had stopped. He was talking now.
"That what you wanted, Father?" he was saying. "That what you wanted? Or did you-all want just the music, not the words? Just to study the music? The beats and the harmonies, compare 'em? Music's not going to tell it all. You got to listen to the words, man; hear the words. What's the difference if the beat and the harmony are out of Africa? The words are out of hell—"
"Nehemiah." Father McCartney's voice was low and gently reasonable. "We need it all, the whole story. Music and words. To make us feel—and to make us think. Think, Nehemiah."
"Think! You want me to think! There's more harm done just thinking than you knows of, Father."
David turned on the piano stool to face the room, catching a glimpse of Margaret's face while his body was in motion. She looked sick. Sure as hell looked sick, and about five sizes smaller. He knew that if she thought she could do it without calling attention to herself she would make it through the cluster of seated students in front of the entrance and be long gone. Margaret knew what was coming just as he did. He could stop it; he could get up now, quickly, and walk over to Nehemiah, give him a reassuring whack on his shoulder, take him into the kitchen for coffee. Every muscle in Nehemiah's body seemed rigid; he was standing still, steady, yet David knew that inwardly his whole being was trembling and that the force of that trembling must and would break through the rocklike immobility of his body. But right now, right at this preclimactic moment David knew that he could stop it. He gathered his muscles to rise, then suddenly released them, and remained seated on the piano stool. Let him go; let Nehemiah have his head—and his heart. Perhaps that was what these noble-thinking liberals needed, what Father McCartney needed—to see a man's soul wide open, to hear a man beyond the control of cool reason tell of things in which reason had no part. Let them listen and squirm.
"The words, Father. You hear 'em? 'Were you there—were you there when they crucified my Lord?' You wasn't there, Father; you wasn't there. They crucifies my Lord every day, every day in the night and in the day. Every time a white man go to a black woman, every time a little black boy hears 'nigger.' You wasn't there—but my daddy was there, and my mother and that black boy sitting on that piano stool yonder, they was there—that black boy was there when he wasn't nothin' but a child and an ofay kid called him a nigger bastard. 'Were you there—were you there'—" Nehemiah's body rocked gently now, backward and forward, in rhythm with his words. Now it was coming, now it was really coming; Nehemiah was headed into a singing sermon, the kind his daddy did, the kind his daddy was still doing—"Singin' Preacher Wilson."
David clenched his fists until he could feel his nails, short as they were, digging into the palms. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stood up, because if he had not he would have whirled on that stool back to the piano, giving Nehemiah a solid platform of chords from which to speak, keeping his beat intact, adding to it. The chills had gone now; he could feel sweat on his forehead, on his ribs and under his arms. He moved forward a step, caught Nehemiah's eye, and suddenly wanted to weep with remorse for having let him continue. Nehemiah couldn't help it once he got started. You ever see his older brother, son? White as a biscuit. As he walked toward Nehemiah now, he felt a surge of warmth, of
love for the small, taut black youth. He wanted to spread his arms as he could to a child, gather Nehemiah up, hide him, carry him off and away from any laughter, any hurting thing —Nehemiah, whose wounds were deep as Christ's.
He was beside Nehemiah now, a hand gentle on the boy's arm. "Take it easy, man," he said softly. "Take it easy."
"Y'all know what I'm saying, David. Y'all know!"
"I hear you. I hear you good." His fingers became firmer, and he spoke in a tone so low no other but Nehemiah could distinguish the words. "I hear you," he said again. "But we're alone, man. We're all alone.... Let's get us some coffee...."
Nehemiah turned, and beneath his fingers David felt some of the tenseness leave the boy's body. Together they walked to the kitchen. On their way David glanced sideways and saw Chuck Martin seated on the floor against the wall, legs drawn up, arms wrapped around them, one big hand, the knuckles white, clasping the other wrist. His forehead rested on his knees, and his face was invisible.
At the kitchen door David turned and called, "Sara. Sara Kent! You and Tom rustle up the cups and saucers from the cupboards out there and set 'em up—"
***
He and Suds left the hall together. Suds made no inquiries about Nehemiah, and David was grateful. In the kitchen, after they left the main room, he had poured coffee into Nehemiah, wondering if the overwrought youth would do as he used to when he was a child—burst into sobs. Apparently he had not worked himself up to that point, although as David stood at the outside entrance to the kitchen and watched him walk away into the darkness he could not be sure. There was a faint glow from the doorway of the church —St. John's Church, Father McCartney was fond of saying, never closed its doors, night or day, to those who sought peace and prayer—and Nehemiah's figure was silhouetted suddenly against the surrounding darkness, and then he was gone; yet David did not turn away immediately. "God," he muttered. "Keep Your eye on Your boy Nehemiah." He turned back into the room, feeling a loneliness he had never known before, an alienation, a setting apart, feeling there in the warm kitchen like a man in the middle of a vast desert in which there was no life but his own.
The feeling was still wi
th him when he left the hall with Sudsy. He waited while Suds, sniffling again with a cold, found and put on his galoshes, and as they walked through the door Suds said: "Fine thing. Now Sutherland has to think. Sutherland has to start thinking about not thinking, like Nehemiah said—"
David did not answer, and as they reached the end of the concrete walkway to the sidewalk Suds said, "Where's Chuck? I forgot him—"
A movement in the darkness caught David's eye, and he turned his head to see it better. A tall, awkward figure was walking slowly, its back to them, toward the church. The hands were in the pockets, the shoulders bent forward, the head low. At the bricked path to the church entrance the figure turned, the light catching the tow-colored hair, the troubled face, and in a moment Chuck Martin had passed through and into the light.
Now it was becoming clearer, the riddle of Chuck Martin. First there had been Jimmie Thornton and two boys crying in the woods, clinging together, and Chuck caring only that Jimmie didn't hate him any more. And it all had to do with something Chuck must have been born knowing—feeling— about God and love—and that something led him away from his fellows tonight, into the light from the church's open door. David wanted to follow him, to pray beside him in that little building, apart from the others, lighten by his own presence the burden Chuck carried on his shoulders, share with him the presence of a love that knew no differences.
"He didn't wait for you, Suds," said David gently to the boy walking beside him. For the first time the key to the puzzle of Chuck Martin was in his hand.
CHAPTER 27
A couple of weeks after he had started his job, David sat at the piano in the Calico Cat winding up a medley of ballads. He wasn't making anyone particularly happy by his choice of music except a couple in late middle-age, celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary, who had been begging for things like "Embraceable You" and "Tea for Two" and "Alice Blue Gown," and he figured their money was making Al prosperous just as much as the money from the blues lovers, and it certainly was making the couple happy. He was wondering how long he'd have to keep it up when he heard a voice directly in his ear. "What the hell," it said. "What the hell are you playing?"
He turned and found himself looking directly into Hunter Travis's face. Hunter was hunkered down on his heels to bring his head just below David's. David grinned, kept on playing. "Clear-the-room music," he said. "You no like?"
"Christ, I thought I'd wandered into a Lawrence Welk audition by mistake. Look, David, did you drive in?"
"Yeah. Sudsy's car. Want a lift?"
"No. Meet me outside when you're through."
When he met Hunter outside a little later, they took a cab to the lot where David had left the car, and as he started the motor, David said, "Why'd you ask me if I drove in?"
"A couple of your classmates are stranded at Lou's Place. With a problem child named Clevenger. They drove in with him. He was a little high when they left Laurel, and he had an accident just outside town. No one hurt, but the car's in a garage. They came in by taxi. I'm staying in town—if I can."
"Oh, hell, Hunter! Not Randy. Not that bastard. Take him somewhere, huh? Let him sleep it off. I'll take the other fellows."
"He's not that kind of drunk."
"Who all's with him?"
"Tom Evans and Bob Witherspoon. Nobody gives a damn what happens to Clevenger; it's just that the others want to get back. And we can't just leave the son of a bitch here."
"All right. Gripes! Clevenger drunk."
They found Clevenger and Witherspoon at a table at Lou's Place. Clevenger was slumped back in his chair, watching with glassy-eyed disgust the gyrations of a singer, the bodice of whose sequine-spangled gown covered no more than the nipples of her breasts. Witherspoon was soberer than Clevenger, and so was Tom, standing at the bar, ostensibly drinking a Coke.
The proprietor was coming toward them, and David had no trouble getting the message: Colored not served. When Hunter said, "My friend is going to take that guy home," and indicated Clevenger, the proprietor smiled broadly and retreated.
David expected an argument from Clevenger when they approached him, but there was none. "Always the little gentleman," said Tom as he and Witherspoon left the club, Randy between them. Outside, Clevenger pulled away from them, and started for the front of the car.
"Here, man, get in back," said Tom.
"No," said Clevenger. He was swaying. "Not going to get in back. Get carsick in back. Going to ride in front with David."
David said: "Sure, Randy, sure. Get in front and take a nap. Go on, you guys, get in back." He opened the door, and as Clevenger clambered unsteadily into the car, muttered to the others, "Food? Coffee?"
"We tried that," said Witherspoon under his breath. "He won't eat, and he says coffee makes him vomit."
Clevenger was quiet as David drove along the riverfront and out of town. It was the first time he had been around when Randy had been drinking to any extent. It didn't look as though he was going to make any trouble, and David relaxed, squaring his shoulders against the back of the seat, getting his hands easy on the wheel. Every now and then Clevenger would say something, but David didn't bother to listen. The moon was nearly full, and the highway, although free of snow, had a ghostly sheen to it. He was tired, as he always was on Saturday nights, but he knew he wouldn't start feeling sleepy until they reached Laurel. He could tell from the broken snatches of conversation in the back that both the others were sobering up. Sometimes he wished he didn't have a good head for liquor; it was always guys like him who wound up taking everybody home. He was relieved that the distasteful task of rescuing Clevenger had come off so smoothly; that they hadn't had to strong-arm him to get him into the car or anything like that.
When he felt Clevenger's hand on his knee the first time, he thought it was an accident, that Randy had been dozing and wakened, muzzy in his mind.
"Take it easy, Randy," he said. "I'm driving."
Clevenger said something David did not even try to catch. They had turned from the main highway and were on the two-lane back road that cut across to the approach road to Laurel. The silence in the back seat indicated that the other two might be napping. The second time Randy spoke he caught the words.
"Lef' the others behind," he said. "Lef' other fellows behind." There was a giggle. "Poor devils. Lef' behind. Jus' me an' David."
David said, "They're back there all right," then felt the hand on his knee again, on his thigh, moving back and forth, stroking. At first he did not take in what was happening; then suddenly his stomach churned violently, and he reached for Clevenger's wrist, closing strong fingers around it in a bone-crushing grip, and thought even as he did it that the wrist was so small it felt like a woman's. "Jesus Christ!" He tightened his fingers, heard in response another insensate giggle.
"Strong," said Clevenger. "Davey-boy's mighty strong."
What the hell was he going to do? He was still stunned and close to incredulous. He loosed his grip on Clevenger's wrist, threw the other's arm away violently. "Keep your hands to yourself, you damned fool. You want to crack us up?"
"Don't be cross, Davey. Davey—"
They were still twenty miles from Laurel, with the long slow grade ahead of them where he would have to shift Sudsy's old car into second. He couldn't drive twenty miles holding this bastard's arm, and it was clear he couldn't let it go.
The jerk of the car as he slammed on the brakes and brought it to a jarring stop off the roadway brought a "Hey, man!" from Witherspoon and a "What's the matter, Stoopid? Forget to get gas?" from Tom.
His answer was a concise, expressive curse as he flung the door open on his side of the car and ran around the front to the door beside Clevenger. When he opened it Clevenger was leaning away, one hand groping across the driver's seat, saying, "Tha's fine, David. Tha's fine. Nice and quiet here—Davey—"
His hand went inside Clevenger's collar, and the feel of the bare neck against the back of his fingers made his skin crawl. When he jerked, Cleve
nger came out backward, stumbling, off balance. He spun him around, caught shirtfront and tie in one fist, clipped him once, just hard enough, on the point of the jaw, then let him slump to the ground.
He turned and saw Tom standing beside him, eyes round and bewildered. "What—what happened?"
Witherspoon came forward, looked down at Clevenger, then at David. "Made a pass?" he asked.
"Passes," snapped David. Tom, looking at the youth on the ground, drawled in a voice that might have been Chuck's: "Reckon we-all got to do something with the body. Cain't just leave it lay. It's sho a mighty purty sight, though."
David stooped and put his hands under Clevenger's shoulders. "Get his feet, someone. Throw him in the back seat Stay in there with him."
Tom said, "Wonder if he'll remember when he comes out of that fog in the morning."
David shivered. "I hope not," he said. "I hope to God not."
Tom was closing the rear door when David stepped on the starter and swung back to the roadway with a whirling skid. "All I've got to say," he muttered as they picked up speed, "is that for a peaceable guy this has been a helluva night."
CHAPTER 28
Randolph Clevenger gave no indication in the following days that he remembered the incident; it might never have happened. David told Sudsy about it, and laughed at Sudsy's nearly popeyed incredulity.
"Look—that guy—I'll be damned—"
"It's not all that unusual, Suds. F'gosh sake, you never heard of queers?"
"Well, sure, of course, only—hell, I mean for Randy to—"
"Make a pass at me. Yeah. He was drunker than we thought. He was sort of, well, I guess you'd call it disoriented. All of a sudden he thought the guys in the back weren't there."
"I had an uncle—still got him—who can't drink because when he does he gets hallucinations. Once he went into a police station and reported all sorts of imaginary characters in the back of the car—in Boston, yet. Randy gets hallucinations in reverse, huh?"
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