Five Smooth Stones

by Ann Fairbairn

  Hunter shrugged. "I don't know, dad. Those things just happen."

  Chuck said, "Andrus."

  David turned to him. "Why Andrus?"

  "Because he had me in his private den feeding me jawbreaker cookies for an hour yesterday. He'd heard about it from God knows who. He just might have inadvertently said something to shut them up that indicated he suspected prejudice. And they were off and running. He asked me not to say anything about being there. Don't ever trust li'l ol' Chuck. Here I am with my big mouth flapping."

  "Flap it some more," said David. "Hunter said something a minute ago—about my not being the first to be Jim-Crowed here. You mean by that maybe some of the other Negro students got eased out quiet-like, got the same deal?"

  "I'm damned sure of it," said Hunter. "You probably gave Sara such a bad time for trying to map out a plan of action you didn't give her chance to tell you."

  David wriggled uneasily. "She hinted at it. Suppose you tell me."

  "I haven't got details. I don't happen to be thinking about you entirely. And I don't think the rest of us are, either. You're the immediate object of attack, of course, but we're also concerned with whether or not there have been others. It happens to be our fight also. Mine and Chuck's and Sara's and Tom's. And God knows, it's Sudsy's. And after we've exhausted that list we have about eighty percent of the rest of the students. We're all either going to receive a diploma from a scholastically exclusive, supposedly liberal college that in the past has eased out half a dozen or so colored students on trumped-up reasons, or we're going to be graduated from a college that woke up and vindicated those guys. And at the same time we are incidentally going to vindicate a student who is still here."

  David was watching Hunter, discomfiture forgotten in his surprise. "You!" he said. "Hunter Travis—the nonparticipant —the objective—the no-stand-on-anything guy—the debater on either side with equal ease—"

  "It's probably the first and last time," said Hunter. "I'm not going to muff it."

  "If you can't whup us, join us," said Chuck. "And you sure as heck can't whup us."

  "And you can't do it alone, you big ape," said Hunter.

  David stared into his half-empty mug, said slowly, "I probably won't be around long enough. I don't mean I'm going to quit—"

  "You'll be around long enough. I spent the afternoon find ing out, among other things, how an expulsion works around here. Unless you're caught in the act of cold-blooded murder in the middle of the quadrangle or spit in an instructor's eye in class—and I'm not sure even then—it takes time to kick a student out of these halls of learning. Meetings, conferences, and opportunity for the student to be heard, then a meeting of the board and, of course, consideration of the dean's recommendations."

  "Democratic as all hell, aren't they?"

  Chuck said, "Among other things that Hunter found out was that in a couple of these other cases the dean recommended against expulsion."

  "But," said David. "But. The guy quit anyhow—"

  "That's what really stinks," said Hunter.

  "All right," said David slowly. "All right. I guess it's different if it's a policy you're fighting. So who writes the letters? Sara says that's the plan."

  "I will, if it's all right with everyone," said Hunter. "Then they'll have an authentic Negro pedigree. If you write you'll have to make a point of it. I'll try making a few telephone calls, too. We won't be able to track them all down; we don't need them all."

  David kept his eyes down, not looking at the others. He thought of what Hunter had just said—that the whole college was involved. It was an argument that left him cold and unconvinced, even though he had agreed to go along. He was surprised that Hunter had even advanced the argument. To him, as a Negro, a liberal tradition was something the whites talked about and the Negro kept still about because if he said anything it would be a dirty word. It was all very high-sounding and noble but it didn't get to him at all. It was northern white tradition, and what had it ever done, liberal as all hell though it might have been for a hundred years, for the Negro as a race, the Negro he knew and had grown up with? Not a Goddamned thing. He'd lived under a white tradition, too, a different kind—one that worked.

  Chuck's voice broke into his thoughts. "We think we've spotted Cozy's little helper."

  He shrugged. "Hell, so have I. I wasn't sure yesterday, but I've thought it over. It's got to be Clevenger. Who else? He's the only one who was in Emory that afternoon; he's the only guy who's made a pass; and he's the only guy here I've punched in the jaw. And besides all that he's a natural-born son of a bitch. So why don't I just beat the shit out of him and take whatever comes?"

  "You can't—" Hunter broke in quickly.

  "I don't see why not. But I'm not going to. Sure be a hell of a lot simpler, though. Solve a lot of problems."

  "Sure enough would," said Chuck. "So would shooting Senator Joe McCarthy. It's the new problems that would hurt—"

  David stood up. "O.K., Hunter. Get going. I'll type the damned letters. I'm faster than any of you. And I'll have a say about what goes into them. But get this: they have to be out soon. Because if they throw me out, I'm staying out. They can get down on their cotton-picking knees and they won't reinstate this boy. No, man!"

  "You halfway hope they will, don't you?"

  "Yes," said David. He picked up the coffee mugs and started for the basin, his back to them. He was achingly conscious of a girl named Sara Kent, who had no life, no existence for him outside Pengard and, as far as he could see, never would. "Yes," he repeated over the sound of running water as he started rinsing mugs. "Halfway."

  ***

  "Tom's now," said Hunter as he and Chuck walked down the steps of Quimby House. From the corner they could see a light in the window of the study Tom shared with Bob Witherspoon. When they knocked, Tom greeted them in paisley print pajamas that rocked Chuck back on his heels and made Hunter say, "Too old for you, son. You should stick to Dr. Denton's."

  Tom's study was as chaotic and disordered as David's room had been neat, and Hunter said: "You guys only have two choices in life. Stand up or go to bed. Where's to sit in this mess?" Tom emptied a chair by the simple expedient of tilting it forward and letting its burden of books and notebooks slither to the floor. Hunter slid into it, legs extended. "Been standing for an hour trying to pound sense into young Champlin."

  "Get anywhere?" Tom's eyes were eager.

  "Sure did," said Chuck. "I won't go so far as to say we got wholehearted support, but we got him out of his shell far enough to say he'd cooperate to a certain degree."

  "That's enough," said Tom.

  "Tom, what about Witherspoon?" asked Hunter. "After all, he's the only other person who was there the night David laid Randy out. How far will he go?"

  Tom was silent for a moment, his face solemnly concerned. "Not far enough. He's the type who doesn't like involvement."

  "He won't lie, will he?"

  Tom sighed. "I don't know whether he's lying or not. I sort of worked his conscience over. If it comes to a showdown, he'll say he was asleep; that the first thing he knew the car was stopped and Clevenger was out cold on the ground. Maybe I can work him over some more and come up with something better. But don't count on it."

  "So right now it's just your word?" Hunter sounded doubtful.

  "Look, dad, Clevenger knows. That rat knows I'm telling the truth. I didn't see any actual pass, but I sure as hell heard what he said. What I don't know is how in hell he's been spreading the word."

  "I think I do," said Chuck. "Part of it, anyhow. I think he asks the question first—'Is the rumor true—' and all that. Then he says—and I heard him say this just after supper— that he feels these things shouldn't be talked around if they aren't true—but, of course, one can't tell—it's pretty well known that homosexuality is almost a way of life with the Negro—of course he couldn't say about Champlin; he seemed a very clean-cut type—although he and Sutherland had been closer than usual—I got in on the act
then and tried to shut him up. Made things worse, I suppose."

  "Why, God damn his stinking little soul to hell," said Hunter slowly. "I didn't think even that guy could get that low. Now—what do we do if we pin the story on Clevenger? This is a separate deal from finding out about these others. After we pin it on Clevenger—you'll never be able to pin it on Goodhue, even if we do think he's encouraging it or something."

  Chuck, who had been half sitting on the edge of the desk, stood up, running a big hand through hair already standing upright in random spikes and tufts. He lumbered to the window and back, to stand in the center of the room, hands in the pockets of his corduroys. "Look," he said. "I reckon it's time I said what I've been wondering whether to say or not. I don't like shooting off my face about a guy unless I have proof, and I'd be the last to be able to come up with proof in this case. But I'll tell you flat what I think—I said 'think'—and that is that Cozy's as queer as our Randy. Queerer." Tom's eyes widened. "Yeah? No kidding? You aren't—" Hunter interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "Wait. Wait. You could be right, Chuck."

  Tom said, "Cripes! If this is true it complicates things—"

  "Sure does," said Chuck. "And I might as well go on, now my big mouth's open. I've got another hunch that complicates the complications. Right now I think our boy Randy is his pride and joy—"

  "What gives you that idea?" asked Hunter.

  "I don't know. I just plumb don't know. I see them together a lot. It's just—heck, I suppose it's something you sort of smell, like a hound dog smells a rabbit. And Randy was with the dean the day David came back after Thanksgiving weekend, back from putting Suds on the train. I saw him leaving Cozy's study. And he's asked Randy to tea. Randy told me that just before the stink came up—"

  "All last year he kept asking me, but I never went because —" Tom stopped abruptly, moaned softly. "Oh, my God, no!"

  Hunter was laughing now, and Tom said, "Shut up, damn it!"

  "I'm remembering," said Hunter. "You're the type. I'm remembering the guys he's been especially nice to. The ones that got invitations to tea and had no trouble switching courses and stuff. Let's see—last year, Parsons, Anderson, Cramer, Holt; this year—Sessions and Terhune. Now Randy. He's a little different in type. Maybe Cozy's getting old enough to need variety—"

  "How many of these guys do you think he made it with?" asked Tom.

  "Why ask me? Offhand—Anderson and Cramer. And Terhune. Then Terhune got hurt in that car wreck on his way back from Chicago one weekend—whether Randy's been any active consolation, who the hell knows? Who gives a damn whether he made it with any of them?"

  "We ought to," said Chuck. "I mean we ought to give a damn."

  "He doesn't carry a gun," said Hunter. "Don't be so damned moral and Christian about it. It's their business. Tom didn't fall for it, did he?"

  "Look," said Tom pleadingly. "Let's change the subject, huh? I'm sort of in shock. You know what I'm going to do? My folks are having an anniversary celebration this weekend. I'm going to give 'em a thrill and go home. Then I'm going to tell the old man about this and see what he has to say. He's an outsider, and it's a long way out of line, but you'd be surprised what he can come up with in the way of ideas. And there's something else I haven't told you. David say anything about the car—Sudsy's Yellow Peril?"

  "No."

  "Cozy took it away from David. Nehemiah Wilson told me."

  "What?" Hunter was on his feet now.

  Chuck ran a hand through his hair again. "You surprised I'm not. David needs that car. When Suds was here he could almost always borrow it to get to the city and back weekends. This way if he can't get a lift he's stuck with the walk to and from the bus. In bad weather that's rough. He's lame—I mean he can make it but—where you going, Hunter?"

  "To see Nehemiah, get him out of bed, and get the real dope from him. You're going home to Chicago this weekend, Tom? I'm going to Boston. It happens that Sudsy's grandfather took care of my mother's family until he died, and then Sudsy's father took over. He put casts on me, stuck needles in me, warned me of the dangers of promiscuous sex—" He was belting his coat. "The name Sutherland packs weight in more than medical circles. If we can't lick it with our own troops, maybe we can bring up some reinforcements."

  "I'll stay behind and mind the store," said Chuck.

  CHAPTER 33

  Dr. Karl Knudsen walked from garage to house in the glare of a floodlight beside the back door, operable from the garage. His gait was the slightly stiff-legged one of a terrier advancing on a hated foe, and Eve Knudsen, watching alone from the kitchen window, murmured, "Oh-oh. He's heard—" and hastily carried coffeepot and cups into the living room.

  She was waiting there to greet him as he entered the room, a little apprehensive. He had been known to break things.

  If he heard her greeting, he made no reply, glared at her a moment, then said, his accent thickened by anger, "Why was I not told?"

  She was used to being expected to be a mind reader. "Because I only learned about it myself an hour ago. I assume that question concerns David?"

  "Who else—and what else!" Suddenly the stiffness of his body relaxed and he walked over to her, kissed her quickly on the cheek. "You always understand. I did not mean to frighten you."

  "Karl, my love, you couldn't. Where did you hear about it?"

  "Andrus." Karl sighed. "Andrus has tried to educate me before. Tonight it was all very clear. He charges that what is happening to David is prejudice and that it is deliberate. And that this, or something similar, has happened to others before David. David is one of his favorite students. Favorite persons, would be a better phrase—" Knudsen was rattling on, and his wife did not interrupt him; it was doing him good. "He has had David in his office often, having tea and petrified cookies. God help the boy, I think they make Latin puns together. If I did not know the boy better I would think he was polishing the orange—"

  "Apple, dear."

  "Apple. Whatever you say." The expected change of mood came explosively. "Good God, Eve, what are we going to do? Where did you learn about it?"

  "Sara, of course. She's upstairs in bed. Probably crying. I decided to say she was coming down with something and called the dormitory and lied."

  "Good, good."

  "Really, Karl—"

  "Her roommate is thoroughly stupid. Better Sara should sleep in a snowbank than have to be with that female if she is upset." He took a swallow of coffee, then frowned at his wife. "Crying, did you say?"

  "Very probably."

  "It is like that, Eve?"

  "Like that, Karl."

  "Damnation." He spoke without heat. "That's about it, Karl. Damnation. We've got to help them—"

  Karl Knudsen drew a deep breath and did not look toward his wife. Thank God, he thought, thank the good God for a wife who could say "them" under these circumstances. He would not have judged her harshly had her attitude been different; she was not a European with the universal standards of the European, but it was a warm pleasure that in this situation their minds and hearts would not be traveling separate roads.

  "Tell me about it, Eve—"

  She had been putting away dishes, tidying up the kitchen, when Sara came in without knocking. Eve insisted that wet outer clothing be stripped off, and held the red knit cap by its pompon, at arm's length, saying, "I-i-ick! I'll put it on the radiator in the dining room—"

  When she came back, Sara was still standing. "Sit down, for goodness' sake. You look like damp death. I'll fix cocoa." She had seen Sara look like that once before, when she was very small and had learned that the aged family setter had been taken to the vet for merciful euthanasia. She wanted to do now what she had done then, put her arms around the child and try to comfort her; but as she had no idea why she would be offering comfort, she waited quietly, preparing cocoa, making Sara sit down to drink it.

  The wait was not a long one. The cocoa, she thought, must have been the homey touch that unlocke
d Sara's emotions.

  "Aunt Eve, people stink."

  "Of course they do, dear. Every once in a while I look around and say the same thing. Then I think—Well, here you are, Eve Knudsen, right in the midst of them, and what can you do but hold your nose—"

  "Please, Aunt Eve—"

  "Sweetie, I'm not being facetious. Suppose you tell me specifically who stinks and why."

  "It's about David—"

  "Sara, he doesn't—"

  "No, Aunt Eve, no! It's other people—" and slowly, with an occasional prod from Eve, the story came out. Eve already knew the incident of the Infirmary; she and Karl had discussed it and dismissed it as being unfortunate and probably calling for some discipline but of no real importance. Her first real interruption came when Sara haltingly told her of the rumor that was slowly creeping through the campus—

  "Sara Kent! No one, but no one, in their right mind is going to believe any such nonsense. I'm ashamed of you for letting it upset you."

  Sara nodded slowly. "Yes, they are. They—some of them are going to enjoy believing it. Maybe you just don't know how it is on a campus."

  "I spent four years on one," said Eve a little tartly.

  'Then you do know."

  Eve did not answer. On second thought, of course she knew. "And—"

  "Wait, dear. You seem to feel prejudice is involved in this."

  Again Sara nodded. "Yes. And we've got a plan, only I can't tell you about it. And—and David—" She stood abruptly and carried her cocoa mug to the sink. There had been no hint in the straight back and resolutely squared shoulders of what Eve saw when Sara turned and faced her: a small, dead-white face, lip muscles stiffening with the effort at control, eyes brimming.

  "Sara—dear—"

  "David hates me. He's furious with me. I—I don't suppose he'll ever speak to me again—"

  "Sara, you idiot—"

  Eve held the small body close, let Sara cry it out against her shoulder, said, after a while, "I didn't really know, my dear—wasn't really sure—now, now." She put two fingers under Sara's chin. "Sara, it's not all that bad. David couldn't in a million years stay angry with you for very long. He couldn't possibly. You know that. So stop this." She held Sara away from her, shook her gently. "It's going to be all right, my dear. It has to be. For you and David. It's not the end of the world. Honestly, it isn't."