What was he saying? What was he getting at, this man who had promised there would be no funeral oration? The preacher's voice went on, and now it was ringing like a deep-toned bell.
" '... and he fell upon his face to the earth. So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone... but there was no sword in the hand of David.' "
David Champlin passed a hand over his face and felt the fingers trembling on his cheek.
"... the comfort we can bring now to his grandson is the knowledge that the last words that came from our brother's lips were of his need for the boy."
Need—needs David—that was what Pop Jefferson had told him on the telephone. You need me, Gramp, I'll come back. You know that. I can make it in a day.
Now the congregation found speech again, and the church was filled with the sounds of "Amen!" and "Yes, Jesus!" and "Lord, Lord!" and from somewhere there came the sound of a woman keening and more chanting: "Yes, Lord... Yes, Jesus... Yeyus, Jesus... Oooooooh, my Jesus."
"He did not call upon God because God was with him in his hour of fear, and I like to think he felt that hand of God."
The people were quiet now, and Jackson went on: "And I like to think—yes, I like to think that when our brother spoke the name of his beloved grandson he spoke not for himself alone but in the name of his father who died in the fire so many years ago, that he turned in his fear, as we must all turn, to our youth who carry in their hands the hopes of our deliverance. I like to think that Joseph Champlin cried aloud in the hour of his fear for all his people—" The black folds of the minister's gown were like dark wings as he spread his arms wide, and now it seemed that his words must carry far beyond the wooden framework of the church, must carry throughout the city, even to the steps of a schoolhouse —"Yes! In the name of all his people!"
He brought his arms forward, turned the palms outward to quiet the congregation: ""Thus saith thy Lord and thy God... Behold, I have taken out of thine hand the cup of trembling, even the dregs of the cup of my fury; thou shalt no more drink it again.'" He was whispering as he repeated: " 'Thou shalt no more drink it again.' "
Now Jackson gripped the sides of the pulpit, bent his head, closed lids hiding the fire, the sword, behind the dark compassion of his eyes. "Let us say together the psalm our brother asked for, that sustained him in life, that promises us all life eternal, the Ninety-first Psalm: 'He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.... He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust....' "
Oh, God, Gramp, couldn't you have done without it, couldn't you have done without the Ninety-first? Because Gramp was there, very small and gentle, like a small brown mouse or a small bird, nestled in the soft down beneath a great wing peering out, and smiling, smiling. David turned his eyes from the minister, looked toward the window, seeing nothing through swimming eyes but a blur. He fumbled for a handkerchief, then realized he did not have to hide his tears, did not have to blow his nose to disguise his emotion, because he was among his own, where grief was natural and not weak, where a man could grieve aloud and not feel shamed.
He heard no more until Emma Jefferson's voice rose above the choir: " 'Oh, Mary, don't you weep—' " The minister's voice joined hers. There was the wide water, shimmering dark, and there on its banks were his people, all black, all singing, and he heard his own voice above the others— " 'Pharaoh's army got drownded—'"
CHAPTER 60
It was all over. The body of Joseph Champlin was in its grave, beside Geneva's, and his grandson felt the release that comes with the easing of a heavy emotional burden. So long as that small, peaceful-looking scrap of brown clay had been above ground, looked at, exclaimed about in eerie whispers, David had felt that Gramp was still in bondage to the world. Now he was free. David could not explain why he felt this way, and did not try.
At the cemetery gate, as they were leaving, he turned to Pop. "Did you notice a tall, blond guy—white man, minister —around after the services?"
"He's around here somewhere, son, right around here. Seen him driving out, then seen him on foot after we got here. You don't want to come with me, I'll give you the keys to my car and go back with Ambrose."
"Thanks, Pop. I'd like to find this guy. See you later."
"You be there in time for supper, y'hear? Emma's counting on you."
The band was almost a block away now, and David gave an involuntary start at the sudden clear golden notes of the lead trumpet in an opening fanfare to "Walking with the King." The people along the sidewalks quickened their steps, and little brown and black and tan children ran to get closer. There was the sound of a motor revving up, and a motorcycle patrolman wheeled into the road, following the band, a check against disorder. David saw a white man with a camera in the crowd along the sidewalk, and swore under his breath. He told himself there was no point in going to jail for snatching the camera. The wonder of it was the guy hadn't come into the church, taken one of his Goddamned pictures of Gramp lying in the coffin.
" 'Sing hallelujah, I'm walking with the King, Praise His holy name—' " Someone in the crowd on the sidewalk was singing the words, and the sound of the band came back to him, clear, compelling, with a driving, syncopated up-tempo. They can play that, thought David. They can really play it. Ten years from now there wouldn't be any marches back from the cemetery, wouldn't be any second lines. Those were old men up there. There was a joyous, triumphant sound to the music. He supposed that in a certain sense it was cause for rejoicing, the march back from the cemetery; it was, in its way, a sort of freedom march, played for a brother whose slavery had never ended until then, to whom a man's name at the bottom of a Proclamation had been only a symbol of good intent.
He heard Chuck speak beside him and turned. "Hi, man! Sure nice of you to come."
"I wouldn't have not come; you know that. Say, is there anywhere around here we can go and have a cup of coffee? I mean together."
"Right across the road. I know them in there. Lots of whites go in there, curiosity seekers, photographers coming out here to get some shots of quaint Negro customs."
"Relax, chum."
Seated at a tiny table in the lunchroom, David looked across at Chuck. "Why are you here? Are you staying long?"
"I reckon I'm what you'd call on detached service, traveling round and about the South—because I'm a cracker myself, I guess—trying to pull our church and others into some sort of cohesive grouping, something that can speak with authority."
"You're not having any success." David made it a flat statement.
"You know it."
" 'Suffer little children'—"
"As long as they're white—"
David changed the subject abruptly. "Chuck, I've been puzzled ever since the services. That minister—"
"He did a fine job."
"All right, he did a fine job. But why go into all that business of 'David'? Embarrassed the hell out of me. And the business of Gramp being taken in the 'midst of his fear.' Why couldn't he leave all that out of it, at a funeral anyhow? I wish Gramp had stuck with Catholicism or been an Episcopalian. No talk at all at those funerals. All that about God's hand being on his shoulder. And about calling out for help in the name of all his people. It shook me up, and something—I can't put my finger on it—something about it puzzled me. Gramp went quickly, Ambrose said."
Chuck's round, open face looked thinner, even drawn, when he answered, "Perhaps he shouldn't have brought it up; at a funeral anyhow." He stirred his coffee slowly, absently, did not look at David. "Better to have kept away from it with all the tension there is here now. Your grandfather's fear couldn't have lasted long, seconds maybe. He must have known, even after the heart attack, that those hoodlums had run off."
The room and everything in it receded, vanished, and left him alone with Chuck. There was a ringing in his ears, in his head, like the brazen clanging of bells; then the bells were gone and he was in, the midst of a great si
lence that was edged around with tiny sounds: the clatter of dishes, a laugh, the sound of a car's horn in the roadway outside, sounds that in no way intruded on the silence, were no louder than a tack hammer might be, tapping away in a great cathedral. His own voice was an echo from the center of the silence.
"What hoodlums?"
"The ones that came out of the alley that night and frightened your grandfather, of course. I suppose all they wanted to do was scare him, make him jump. Maybe the little rats— the little white rats—wouldn't have done it if they'd known about his heart, if they'd known that instead of just giving him a scare they'd—frighten him to death."
David was not conscious of getting to his feet.
"David—I thought you knew—"
Chuck saw a fine tremor in the brown hand that tossed coins on the table. He touched his friend's arm, felt it pull away, and was looking up into the face of a stranger. He rose and came round the table to stand beside the stranger, but he was too late. The voice that came back to him from the man limping through the door—"Sorry, Chuck"—was unrecognizable.
***
Pop Jefferson looked at the younger man standing in front of him. "Hell, David, it wouldn't have done no good to tell you."
Behind them, from the kitchen, they heard Emma's voice. "I told you, Pop Jefferson. I told you wasn't any use trying to keep it quiet. Told you there wasn't no such thing as a secret in New Orleans, the boy'd better get it from a friend."
Without turning or taking his eyes from Pop's face, David said, "I got it from a friend."
"You hush up, Emma. David, them white boys never laid a hand on Li'l Joe."
"They murdered him."
"Look, lemme fix you a drink. Sit down, son. Gawd's sake, sit down."
"No. What did they look like?"
"I didn't see 'em good. Not real good. Just a quick glimpse. They was running like striped-assed apes."
"Are you lying to me? You didn't tell me what happened, nobody told me. Not a Goddamned soul told me what happened to Gramp. That was lying. You let me think Gramp died a natural death. Are you lying to me now?"
"Swear to God I'm not, David. He did die a natural—"
"Who did see them? Someone saw them."
"David, you got to understand. Things was mighty mixed up and confused. Reckon maybe somebody may have seen 'em good, but I couldn't say who. Look, David, Li'l Joe wouldn't want you getting all upset—getting into—"
"Who was there? Who might have seen them good?"
"Lawd! I don't—"
Emma came to the doorway that led to the kitchen. "Rudy Lopez was there," she said. "Rudy run to Li'l Joe first before Pop and Ambrose got to him. Pop pushed him away a little so's Ambrose could get to your grandaddy. Ambrose got First Aid train—"
"Where's Rudy?" David turned and was looking at her now. "Where's Rudy living now?"
"I don't know—and that's God's truth, David. After his folks died and he got married he moved off somewhere. That's the first I seen of him in more'n three years—"
"Emma, will you shut up—"
"Let her talk. Let her tell me. Who else was there, Emma?"
"Ain't no one else I can call to mind—wait. Placide Smith. You know Placide?" David shook his head.
"Li'l Joe's been knowing Placide a long time. Since they was kids, I guess. Placide's older'n your Gramp. I remember now, he come around the corner, looking back over his shoulder like maybe those white boys had bumped into him when they was running away. Then I heard Ambrose calling to get an ambulance, and I run for the house, and then the po-lice come. But Rudy Lopez, he picked up the knife before the law got there."
"Knife! What knife?"
"Look, David—" It was Pop, almost tearful, breathing" heavily.
"What knife, Emma!"
Emma came into the living room now and stood by the table with the stiff crocheted doilie in the center and the leg trued up by a little pile of cardboard match clips. There was flour on her hands, and the rich, spicy smell of okra gumbo, coffee, and baking biscuits filled the house. "The knife one of them whites threw down when they started running." She tried to wipe the flour from her hands with a corner of her apron. "All I could figure was if the po-lice caught 'em they was going to say your Gramp pulled the knife on 'em. Anyhow, Rudy, he snatched that knife up quicker'n a cat and put it in his pocket. I seen that myself. But Pop's right, David. They never laid a finger on him. Just jostled him and I guess talked bad to him, trying to scare him. All this trouble with the schools and all. Whites'll do anything once colored starts coming up."
Pop said, "Just a coupla punks, out to get a nigger. Half drunk."
"High-sperrited," said Emma. The bitterness of centuries was in her tone. "They killed him."
"They never teched him, son."
"They killed him."
"Mebbe so," said Pop resignedly. "Mebbe in one way they did. Whites've been killing colored more'n a hundred years, never teching 'em. But it's done now, son. It's done now. F'Gawd sake—"
Emma and Pop Jefferson watched him go, helpless to stop him. As the quick, limping steps were heard on the banquette outside, then not heard because they had gone too far, Emma began to moan.
"Jesus have mercy!" It was not an exclamation. It was a prayer. "Oh, Lord Jesus, have mercy!"
***
Rampart, St Anne, Ursuline, St. Peter, down one side, up the other. Bourbon, Burgundy, St. Philip, down by the waterfront and up to Canal, grief left behind, hate walking within him. Little neighborhood saloons, colored only; bigger saloons, colored screened off at one end of the bar, Coke shops and juke joints, restaurants and lunch wagons, and often when he entered there would be a sudden silence. In Cy's Place he heard a man say, "Lawd! Here comes trouble" and David walked to the cluttered table where he sat, recognizing him as someone Gramp had known. "Man, I don't know nothing; I was home eating supper—" and David left.
He went no place where there was not a friend of Li'l Joe Champlin's, no place Gramp wasn't known. Not all of them —Christ! not all of these people—could be a part of some nightmare conspiracy of silence; at some place some one of them must be able to answer the questions "Did you see them?"
"Do you know where I can find Rudy Lopez?"
He did not walk off the hate and rage, but at last he banked their fires so that the glow of their flames did not show in his eyes, so that he could enter a bar and there would be no sudden silence—the talk would go on, and the noise. There were hate and rage on the streets and in the bars to match his own that night, but he was only vaguely conscious of it, only obscurely aware that the hate of those he met had fear for a running mate, until it came to him that this was the reason his questions went unanswered, and for the first time he realized that there were as great evils abroad as the one that had sent him on his blind search—greater.
On Burgundy Street he leaned for a moment, tired, against the corner of a building and felt in his pockets for cigarettes. A pair of policemen walked along the banquette toward him and looked at him with smoldering contempt. They slowed their steps, seemed about to stop, eyes alert and seeming almost hopeful that he would make an overt move; then they passed him slowly, a threat in every measured step. It must have been like this in Nazi Germany, thought David; it must have been like this in what the rest of the world liked to call "civilization's darkest hour." They were everywhere he looked that night, police in uniforms and men in plainclothes he knew to be police. "Ask them," he said to himself. "Ask them, David Champlin. You're a lawyer—and they're the servants of the people. Ask them. You went to Harvard. Remember? And Oxford. Remember? You're a Goddamned great lawyer, going to work for the Department of State of your country, going to show other countries how to do it, how to build a government, how to build a government so there'll be enough men to spare to take a little child to school, to protect a little child from spittle; you're going to show 'em, by God, you are! Ask the next cops you see. Tell 'em who you are, ask 'em if they know about the ofay bastards who left a
little brown man named Joseph Champlin dying of fright in the street. Walk right up and tell 'em who you are and ask 'em." He began to laugh, not loudly, not the laughter that could be heard three courtyards away, but soundlessly.
He had drunk little; two or three whiskies at the most, spaced over the night. The others he had ordered were left on bars and tables when he had found himself cut off from communication, cut off by his own people, walled off as completely as though he had been white; faced by a blank, bland friendliness that had beneath it the wariness of the jungle animal who knows itself to be the prey of stronger creatures. Gramp would have done what these people had done: curled up in the hollow of the tree of his being, where it was deep and dark and secure, until the smell of danger was past.
He had not been to Hank's Place yet, and he limped down the banquette and around a corner, conscious of an ache of tiredness in his gimpy leg, made worse by the damp cold of the night. Hank's Place had changed since he was a child and Geneva had sent him scampering down there to fetch Gramp home for dinner or to answer a call for work. The original owner, who had so often given credit to Li'l Joe because he trusted him, was dead, and the new owner had enlarged the place keeping its name. Although it was not crowded on this night, it gave the impression of being full, its blue, fuzzy atmosphere vibrant with sound: the blare of a jukebox, the laughter and loud talk of the young people milling around in its center, some dancing, some sitting at tables, some hanging around the jukebox. A woman was singing, and her voice had a flat, strident quality that hurt David's ears yet drove as true as a well-placed knife into his mind and heart. The big room smelted like the other places he had been that night—of stale smoke, beer, whiskey, and human bodies.
He cursed himself for not looking up Rudy on his trips home the last few years. He knew so few, almost no one now, of his own generation in New Orleans. The persons he recognized were either of Gramp's generation or their sons and daughters, old or middle-aged. No one of them knew where Rudy was; only a few even recognized the name, and they said, invariably, something like: "Stays someplace over the river, Beauregard, maybe, or Algiers... ain't seen him in a long time.... Mebbe he was over here the first of the week, like you say. I wouldn't know... ain't sure I'd know him if I seen him."
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