Five Smooth Stones

by Ann Fairbairn

  "No, I didn't. I know you're right. My God, you're both on my back, and I haven't even mentioned England!"

  "No, but you would, brat," said Peg. "Sooner or later you'd have to. So why not now? We're doing you a favor, really. Saving you hours of dread about bringing it up."

  "Gee, thanks," said David miserably. "Thanks a lot."

  "Tut-tut," said Peg.

  "I suppose Peg is right," said Brad. "She usually is. More brandy to fortify you?"

  David shook his head. "I still have some. You've both had me too rattled to drink it."

  "Poor lamb," said Peg. "No. I withdraw that. Sympathy's the last thing you need."

  The ancient wicker chairs on which they sat creaked with each shift of their occupant's position. There was still no wind, only the alternating roar and crash and snarl of the surf below them, and the homey sound of pliant wicker complaining as it gave way to their bodies' movements. David leaned forward, one finger picking absently at a piece of broken reed in the skirt of the tabletop in front of him. He was quiet for a long time. Neither Brad nor Peg offered help by speaking.

  At last he said: "I don't know why everyone's wondering about my motive. I know what Brad's getting at, but it's not for very long. Less than a year." He glanced up and sideways at Brad. "You don't think, do you, that I'm doing it as a sort of prestige thing? So that when I walk into a courtroom people will say 'There's a Negro who went to Oxford?' Like driving up to a real-estate office in a white Caddie knowing damned well they haven't got a house they'd show a Negro, but getting my licks in anyhow? Or maybe being able to thumb my nose at white lawyers— 'Yah-yah—anything you can do I can do better—'"

  "Oh, God, of course we don't!" snapped Peg. "That's childish. After Brad told you about the legacy, we used to lie awake at night and picture you tossing on a bed of guilt. Another piece of 'luck' you'd figure you weren't entitled to. It wouldn't have surprised me if Brad had come home some night and told me you'd decided to give it away."

  David laughed in spite of his mental discomfort. "Who, me? Give it away? But—but—hell, as long as I have the money what's wrong with using it to give myself all the leverage I can?"

  Brad leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, his eyes on the weathered rafters of the veranda's roof. "It's only my opinion, of course, but I don't think that's the kind of leverage that's needed at this point. Unless you want to take the political route. And even then I think a little of the rough-and-tumble, homegrown politics with which the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is so rife would be helpful. I mean before you tackle the abstract realms of political science."

  "Politics? God, no! I'd be lousy."

  "Don't be so damned sure. You might need a Brad Willis and a Mike Shea—certainly a Mike Shea!—standing in the prompter's box at first. And to hand you a knife now and then—after you'd learned to use it. The climate's ripening for a young crusader like you."

  "Complete with knife?" He grinned. "Anyhow, I'm no crusader."

  "In your own simple way you're just that If you'd get over this defeatism."

  "I'm no defeatist either, damn it!"

  "Perhaps not, basically. Or perhaps only occasionally. Anyhow, Klein agrees with me. Agrees with me, hell! He's the one who made me think about it. Mrs. Hubbard also agrees —and it was her husband who made her think about it He's much taken with you."

  "We've met three times—"

  "He prides himself on omniscience. There are others who have their eyes on you, among them the district attorneys of Middlesex and Suffolk counties. You could rally a hell of a lot of quiet support, David, if you started laying the groundwork for a political career. Who prepared the brief for Klein to submit, the one that challenged the right of Federal legislators from the State of Alabama to hold office?"

  David rose and walked to the railing of the veranda, looking for a moment at the surf and the lead-green of the sea. When he walked back to the table he said slowly; "Look,

  Brad. Please, for God's sake, don't get mad. I know I've had damned near everything handed to me. Sure, I've had some rough spots because I'm a Negro, just as you have, but nothing like what most of us go up against. This may be the last thing I'll have handed to me, and as I said before, it's not for long. You think I'm going to stay over there, for gosh sake? I can't practice law in England. There's a law against it!"

  "David, my dear, sit down and relax." Peg's eyes were warm and understanding. "How often have you said that the Prof used to hammer at you constantly about being honest with yourself? A lot of times. You'll feel a lot better if you admit right now why you're going."

  Seated again, he looked over at her warily. "Why am I going, Mother Goose?"

  "Sara's there."

  "Peg!" Brad's tone was half admonition and half amused indulgence.

  "You've been beating around the bush like a—a damned lawyer—for the past fifteen minutes. I'm a direct woman, who likes to come to the point. I don't think David resents it. Do you, David?"

  I do, he thought; I resent it like hell, but it's only because you said something I wouldn't speculate about even with myself. And it isn't true; be damned to you both if it's true. But he said, "Of course I don't resent it. But it's not the reason. She—Sara's in Denmark."

  Brad laughed softly. "Come off it, brat. Denmark's only a few hours from London, and last I heard she was in London."

  He could find out, it would be easy to find out, where she would be staying, even if Hunter wouldn't tell him. It would be enough, he thought, enough just to see her; she needn't even know he was there. Perhaps by now she wouldn't even care. But there could be no harm in just finding out where she was, in managing somehow to see her and know for himself that all was well with her, be able at last to answer the question that seemed never to have left his mind in this past year and a half: Sara, smallest, is it all right with you? That's all I want to know, is it all right with you?

  At last Peg's voice broke in on his thoughts: "David. Wake up, pet. I'm apologizing. Perhaps I should have kept quiet. I didn't mean to hurt you—"

  He smiled at her, warmer and happier now than he had been in a long time. "You didn't, Peg. You couldn't." Instead of resentment, now he felt gratitude. She had been right to say what she had. It had opened the windows on his self-deceit. He wanted to go to England because Sara would be near. Not to join her again, just to see her. And if, in realizing his goal, he managed to get a crack at the best there was in graduate study, well, luck—luck—Man pays for his luck.... You pay for your pretties....

  He stood up abruptly, rubbed the knuckles of a clenched fist against Peg's chin. "That storm's getting too close for comfort. You two want to start back?"

  CHAPTER 51

  The third afternoon out from New York harbor, David ventured into the public lounges of H.M.S. Carinthia for the second time since boarding. He stood looking down at Hunter Travis sprawled out in a big chair in the smoking room. "You owe me at least five meals, you seagoing bastard."

  "Six."

  "Five. I made dinner the first night out."

  "Something you ate then, no doubt."

  "Something I ate then, hell! Something I did when I let you talk me into taking a ship."

  "You'll love it in time. I swear it."

  David sank into a chair next to Hunter, decided not to court further disaster, and shook his head at the smoking-room steward, who was hopefully awaiting a drink order. He shuddered, remembering the trials of the previous day and that morning, when Hunter had stood in the middle of his stateroom viewing him, if not with alarm, at least with concern.

  "You're the Goddamndest color—" Hunter had said. "Get lost."

  "I've sent the room steward for the sister."

  "Sister! What I need is the priest—"

  "The nursing sister. In England 'sister' is the term for those in the higher echelons of nursing. And don't call her 'nurse.'

  She'll give you a pill, and after that you'll sleep and when you wake up you'll be hungry."


  "I'll never be hungry again."

  But Hunter had been right. The sister had come, all crisp veil and motherly British authority, bullied him gently in a North of England accent, given him a pill, shooed Hunter out, and he had slept and then awakened in midafternoon, whole and healed.

  It had taken an all-out effort on Hunter's part to persuade him to make the trip by sea, and he gave in without enthusiasm.

  "My last chance at a vacation," said Hunter. "Maybe for years. I'll go to bat for you with Brad and get him to loosen up with enough for you so we can travel first class. The best sailing date is the Carinthia's. She's not as big as the Queens or the Mauretania, but she's a loverly ship."

  "Yes, but—"

  "We'll land in Liverpool. You can go direct to Oxford and settle in, or come down to London for a couple of days with me. And you'll have a chance on the trip over to learn the language."

  "Damn it, it's a whole week—oh, all right, all right—God help you if I'm seasick."

  Now David grudgingly admitted to himself that sea travel had much to commend it. Hunter said, "I'll lower a lifeboat personally and row us back home if you see, hear, or smell Crow. I refer to ship's personnel. I won't speak for the passenger list." He snubbed out his cigarette. "Let's go topside. There's another lounge up there. And the last time I took this ship there was a piano."

  David grinned. "Now I get all that sea-salesmanship. Figured you'd have a captive performer."

  The big room on the uppermost deck was deserted, and although David religiously kept his eyes away from a horizon that rose and sank rhythmically and disturbingly, he could not hold back an exclamation at the sparkle of a white-flecked green sea under a westering sun. He walked over to the baby grand at the aft end of the room, smiling. "Even on tea I can play hell out of this baby." He flipped back the cover over the keys, then sat and rambled aimlessly through an improvised blues. In a chair nearby Hunter stretched out until he was resting on his spine, ankles crossed, one foot waggling with the beat, long fingers tapping it out on the table beside him. In five minutes David was lost in the music coming alive under his hands. Without looking toward Hunter he said, "I'll take requests from the audience—" When there was no reply he turned his head and then stopped playing abruptly. He was looking directly into the eyes of a stranger who was standing close to the piano, the almost dead blackness of the face broken by the gleam of large, dark eyes and white teeth revealed in a half-smile. After the first surprise David recognized the newcomer as an African. There was no mistaking the rounder head, the hair that had never been tampered with growing just slightly longer than that of the average American Negro, the dignity of the stance, the reserve of the smile.

  "Well, hi—" he said lamely. "I didn't hear you come in."

  Hunter pulled himself upright by sections and came over to the piano. "David, this is Mr. Jedediah Abikawai. I told you yesterday that he was aboard—"

  "Anything you told me yesterday, pal—" David stood and came forward, holding out a hand to the newcomer. "Glad to meet you Mr.—Mr.—"

  He recognized in the responsive laugh a muted echo of his own. "No one understands my name the first time. I do not mind if you call me Jed. It was what they called me at the university."

  David had to strain to understand him. The soft, low voice combined with the English accent took getting used to; he had found that out at Harvard. He had also found out at Harvard that any idea he had previously entertained that there would be instant rapport between an American Negro and a blood brother from Africa was founded solely on wishful thinking. The aloofness of the ones he had met had been impregnable, and now he restrained himself warily.

  "Won't you continue playing? It was very good." Jedediah Abikawai spoke with soft precision and formal phrasing, vowels broadened, the understated consonants almost liquid in sound.

  "I was just getting warmed up." David looked over at Hunter. "And thirsty. I'm not scared now."

  The bar at the forward end of the room was closed, and Hunter said: "I'll run down and see about drinks. I tipped Jed off that as soon as you healed I'd lead you to this piano. Be back in a minute."

  Jedediah remained standing for a moment, a rather short figure with powerful but not heavy shoulders under a pale yellow shirt and matching cardigan. David moved to the chair Hunter had left, and watched Jedediah covertly as the other man walked to the chair opposite him. There were physical power there and catlike coordination, but more than either there was an immense dignity. He waited, without speaking, until Jedediah sat down and said, "You have known Hunter Travis a long time, Mr. Champlin?"

  "We were in college together. Counting that, say, roughly, between nine and ten years all told."

  "I had never met him before, but when we became acquainted yesterday we discovered that he and my father are old and good friends. They met first when I was very small and Mr. Travis visited my country, and they have met often since. Meeting his son this way, at sea, was like meeting an old friend."

  David, mindful of previous experiences, did not ask questions; he was surprised at this volunteering of information on so short an acquaintance This character, he thought, is a damned likable guy, and if I don't come on too strong maybe he'll keep on unbending. He stretched and sighed. "Sure good to be up and out. This is my first day in circulation since we left."

  Jedediah said "Brrr-rrr-rrr—" and shuddered. "You have my sympathy. I have been seasick, too. Not recently, but on earlier ocean trips."

  "You have?" David realized he hadn't restrained the note of surprise in his own voice. Being seasick didn't jibe with this man's somber, dark strength, and that dignity; the circumstances were hard to picture.

  "Yes, indeed. Oh, my God, yes. But I still return to sea travel. Until I was fourteen I saw only lakes and rivers. I fell in love with the sea then, and have never recovered: Though it slay me, yet will I trust in it—"

  "I see now why your name is Jedediah."

  "Yes. I went to school first in the mission school. The name I bear among my own people was difficult for them, so they named me Jedediah. I do not expect to live up to it. And there are other reasons."

  "Were you in the mission school for long?" It seemed a harmless question.

  "Until I was fourteen. Then my father sent me to public school in England. That was when I had my first bout of seasickness—on the way—"

  Hunter, coming up the stairs a little later, stopped halfway, listening. David's laugh had brought students running from all directions at Pengard because, they said, their windows rattled. I missed out on that gift in my mixed heritage, he thought, the gift of deep and easy laughter; it was diluted out of existence, along with other gifts, so that I am a sitter-on-the-sidelines, never sharing fully in the mirth of those of the dark side of my heritage—or in the tears of either.

  The laughter had subsided when he entered the lounge, but he said, "What were you two roaring about?"

  "I guess it started with seasickness," said David.

  Jedediah said: "I was telling David about my first sea trip, when I was fourteen, and how I lost my faith. It so happened that a pious young man, an instructor at the mission school, was returning to England at the same time, and my father put me in his care." He laughed, softly this time. "When the God of the Christians seemed to have deserted me in my hours of trial, I reverted to the gods and customs of my tribe as best I could. I was describing to David the reactions of the pious young man to my apostasy. He was also seasick. It is hard to be evangelical on a rough sea when one is feeling the motion violently."

  An hour later, David looked at his watch. "Hey—another hour and we eat—"

  Hunter said, "I have to shave—" He looked at Jedediah. "You're sitting alone, aren't you? So are we. Why don't we have the steward give us a table together?"

  "Why not?" Jedediah's smile had the effect of making his skin glow.

  David, instantly on the defensive said, "Why're you alone in the first place? Did they make you?"

  Th
ere was a quick stiffening of the other man's shoulders, and the smile of a moment before might never have happened. "No. It was at my request." He relaxed, and the smile returned. "There were difficulties on my first transatlantic trip. I was only eighteen, and perhaps childish in my reactions. I was seated at a table where a couple from your Alabama were also seated."

  "Oh, God, no!" said David. "A hell of an introduction. And don't call Alabama mine."

  Jedediah shrugged. "It was good that I learned immediately. I played a childish game. I came to my meals early; they started coming late. Then I started coming late and they were forced to come early. They were discomfited and I was amused. Then I realized that I was being childish. The other couple at the table were delightful, from France. We became fast friends, talking only in their language. In the end it was the Americans who suffered. As I have found it usually is. However, since that time when I am on a ship which has the United States either as a starting point or home port, I always request a single table." He looked at David without smiling. "The tentacles of your country's prejudices reach a long way."

  ***

  Hunter followed David into his stateroom when they reached A deck. David said, "Do I have to wear black tie and stuff? You swore I wouldn't."

  "No. I do the second night out. Just to show I have one, I guess. And the night before the night before landing. Otherwise, an ordinary suit with white shirt and tie."

  David sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his shoes. "I'm going to shower. Know something? I like that guy Jedediah. He's the first African I've met who seems all the way human."

  "Perhaps because you're meeting him on foreign soil, not United States."

  "He's colonialized British—"

  "Not for long. Zambana gains its independence in less than a year. Don't you read the papers? His father's head man. Quite a person. The natives who have had English schooling call him Solomon. So does my father."