“Turning him ’gainst God?”
“Tante Lou, that radio has nothing to do with turning Jefferson against God,” I said. “That radio is there to help him not think about death. He’s locked up in that cage like an animal—and what else can he think about but that last day and that last hour? That radio makes it less painful. Now, if you all want that radio out of there, you just go on and take it from him. But I won’t go back up there anymore.”
“We got to have it your way or else, that’s it?” Reverend Ambrose cut in.
“No,” I said. “You can have it your way. You can take it from him. But you won’t reach him if you do. The only thing that keeps him from thinking he is not a hog is that radio. Take that radio away, and let’s see what you can do for the soul of a hog.”
“Then I’m the one that’s not needed,” the minister said.
“No,” Miss Emma said. “You have to go, Reverend Ambrose. I’ll make him see.”
“You saw today how it was,” the minister said. “He can’t hear me through that wall of sin.”
“I’ll make him see,” Miss Emma said. “He needs you. Maybe he don’t know it yet, but he needs you. Maybe you don’t know it yet either, Grant.”
“All I know, Miss Emma, is that last Friday was the first time I reached him,” I said. “It was the first time he didn’t call himself a hog.”
“And that whole gallona ice cream?” the minister said. “You sure you reached him?”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
“Well, Mr. Teacher?” Reverend Ambrose said. “I’m waiting for your answer.”
My aunt and Miss Emma were also waiting.
I went back to see Jefferson again on Wednesday. On Tuesday, I had asked the children at the school to bring large pecans and roasted peanuts for me to take to him. Some brought pecans in paper bags, some brought them in little flour and rice sacks, others brought them in their pockets. There were about twenty-five pounds of pecans, about half that many pounds of roasted peanuts. I took a few pounds of each and left the rest to be distributed among the children after school. In Bayonne I bought a half-dozen apples, some candy, and two or three comic books.
You did not hear the music until you got near the cell. He was lying on his bunk, the little radio on the floor at his head. Paul let me in and left.
“How’s it going, partner?” I said. “The children sent you some pecans and peanuts. I bought you some apples and a couple candy bars. Some funny books.”
He let his feet slide to the floor as he sat up on the bunk. I stood there awhile, then I sat down at the foot of the bunk and handed him the bag. He took it without saying anything and set it on the floor. The radio was still playing.
“Doing all right?” I asked him.
He sat there staring at the wall in front of him, his big hands clasped together. He nodded his head.
“How’s the radio?” I asked him.
“All right.”
“Did you get Randy over the weekend?”
“Yeah, I caught him.”
“I listened to him a little bit myself,” I said. “You didn’t have any trouble getting the station, did you?”
“No, I got him all right,” he said.
We were quiet. He stared at the concrete wall. The radio was playing western music on a station out of Baton Rouge.
“You want to ask me anything?”
He shook his head. I waited a moment, until I thought it was a good time to speak.
“I saw your nannan the other day after she came back from seeing you, Jefferson. She said you didn’t have dinner with them in the dayroom. They had to come here, and they couldn’t sit down.”
He didn’t say anything.
“When they come back, can you meet them in there, Jefferson? She needs that.”
“All right.”
“You’ll do it for me, for her?” I asked.
“All right.”
“She would love that, Jefferson. And Reverend Ambrose—will you let him talk to you?”
“All right.”
I didn’t know anything else to talk about, and he had nothing to say, so we just sat there quietly awhile.
“Jefferson,” I said finally, “I want to be your friend. I want you to ask me questions. I want you to say anything that comes to your mind—anything you want to say to me. I don’t care what it is—say it. I’ll keep it to myself if you want, I’ll talk about it to other people if you want. Will you do that for me?”
He nodded his head. He was staring at the wall.
“I just thought of something,” I said. “Sometimes at night—sometimes when you’re thinking about something and may not be able to remember it when I come back—I was just thinking maybe I could bring you a little notebook and a pencil. You could write your thoughts down, and we could talk about it when I came back. Or maybe you could talk to Reverend Ambrose about it when he came to visit you. Would you like that?”
“All right.”
“You want me to bring it?”
“If you want.”
“And you would write down your thoughts? Anything you want to talk about?”
He nodded his head. But he was still looking at the wall.
“Do you believe I’m your friend, Jefferson?” I asked him. “Do you believe I care about you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Jefferson?”
But he was not listening.
I looked around the cell—at the seatless brown-stained commode, the washbowl whose faucet never stopped dripping, the little metal shelf over the bowl, which held his pan, tin cup, and spoon. Through the barred window I could see the branches of the sycamore tree stirring from a soft breeze. There was still a chill in the air, and Jefferson wore one of my heavy wool shirts. On the floor, the little radio had been playing one western song after another.
“You like that country stuff, huh?”
“It don’t matter.”
“Me, I go for Randy,” I said. “I like those low-down blues.”
I heard someone opening the big steel door at the other end of the cellblock. And as he came down the aisle, I could hear Paul speaking to the prisoners.
“Well, I guess I’ll be taking off,” I said. “Anything you want me to tell your nannan?”
I had stood. Now he looked up at me. There was no hate in his face—but Lord, there was pain. I could see that he wanted to say something, but it was hard for him to do. I stood over him, waiting.
“Tell—tell the chirren thank you for the pe-pecans,” he stammered.
I caught myself grinning like a fool. I wanted to throw my arms around him and hug him. I wanted to hug the first person I came to. I felt like someone who had just found religion. I felt like crying with joy. I really did.
I held out my hand. He raised his. A big hand, but with no grip. Cool, dead weight. I squeezed his hand with both of mine. I must have had that grin still on my face when Paul opened the door to let me out.
“Everything’s okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
24
MISS EMMA THOUGHT we should all visit Jefferson together as often as we could. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of being at the courthouse at the same time as the minister, but one look from my aunt, and I decided that I would go along, at least once. Leaving Irene Cole and Odessa Freeman in charge of classes, I drove to Bayonne with a bag of pecans and peanuts. I remembered my promise to Jefferson, so I dropped by the drugstore for a notebook and a pencil. It was a little after two when I got to the courthouse. The minister, Miss Emma, and my aunt were waiting for me outside. They stood by the minister’s car, near the statue of the Confederate soldier and the three flags. The flags hung limp beneath the overcast sky. The minister and my aunt looked at me, and both seemed angry, as if I had kept them waiting deliberately. I had not, of course. If I had not stopped for the notebook and pencil, I probably would have arrived there before they did, but I did not explain this to them. Miss Emma did not feel the same
as they did, and that was all that mattered. Both she and my aunt carried food baskets covered with dish towels. As I approached them, Miss Emma pushed herself away from the car and started heavily toward the entrance to the courthouse. My aunt and the minister walked behind her, and I followed.
Paul was not there, and the chief deputy, after searching the food and us, led us out of the office, into the corridor. He walked several paces ahead of us, as if we were not with him. When we came to the rest room marked WHITE MEN, he went inside. We waited for him along the wall. Five minutes later, he came out with another white man. They stood there talking another minute or two before he continued along the corridor. We went up the steps and into the dayroom, and, without a word, he opened the door and left us.
Miss Emma and my aunt spread out a tablecloth on the table, then they placed a pan, a spoon, and a paper napkin in five places. After they had set up everything, they and the minister sat down, but I remained standing.
The first thing you heard were the chains around his ankles, then Jefferson entered the room through the rear door, followed by the deputy. Jefferson wore the same brown wool shirt he’d had on a couple of days before. He had on a pair of faded denims and brogans with no laces. He was dragging his feet to keep the shoes on.
“Here he is,” the deputy said. “See y’all at three.”
“Paul’s not here today?” I asked.
“Mr. Paul’s got other duties,” the deputy said. He looked at me as if to remind me that I was supposed to say Mister before a white man’s name. He stood there eyeing me until he felt that I understood.
“I brought you some good old gumbo,” Miss Emma said to Jefferson.
“How’s it going, partner?” I said, as I took my seat beside him.
“All right,” he said.
“The radio still playing?”
He nodded his head.
“Good,” I said.
Miss Emma put rice in each pan, then she poured gumbo over the rice until the pan was nearly full. Besides shrimps, she had put smoked sausage and chicken in the gumbo, and she had seasoned it well with green onions, filé, and black pepper. Gumbo was something you could always eat, even if you were not hungry. I started in. But I was the only one. And I soon realized why.
“May we bow our heads,” the minister said, after I had put down my spoon.
Jefferson’s head had been bowed from the moment he sat down. I lowered my eyes.
“Our Father who art in Heaven,” Reverend Ambrose began. He went through the Lord’s Prayer, but that was only for warming up. Then he really got down to praying. He asked God to come down to Bayonne, into the courthouse, into the jail; walk along the cellblock, go into each cell, touch each heart; come into this room and touch the hearts of those here who did not know Him in the pardon of their sins. As he prayed, the minister would slump closer and closer to the table. Then he would jerk his head up and gaze at the ceiling. Miss Emma and my aunt responded with “Amen, Amen, Amen.” But Jefferson was quiet, and so was I. Whether or not he was listening, I don’t know; but all I was thinking about was the gumbo getting cold.
Finally, Reverend Ambrose brought his prayer-sermon to an end, begging God to bless the gift on the table, which was there to nourish our bodies so that we might do His bidding. Everyone responded with “Amen,” except Jefferson.
I started eating. The gumbo was warm but not hot.
“Ain’t you go’n eat, Jefferson?” Miss Emma said.
“Ain’t hongry.”
Miss Emma was not eating either. But the minister and my aunt and I were. I broke off a piece of bread from one of the loaves that Miss Emma had baked. I didn’t look at her; I didn’t want to see her face.
“The children sent you some more pecans and peanuts,” I said to Jefferson. “Did you eat the others I brought you?”
“Some,” he said.
“The peanuts too?”
“Few,” he said, his head down.
“I brought you that notebook and that pencil,” I said. “Do you remember what we talked about?”
He nodded shortly.
“Have you been thinking of questions to ask me?”
He nodded again.
“Do you want to ask me now?”
He didn’t say anything. I finished my pan of gumbo.
“There’s more there, Grant,” Miss Emma said.
“No, ma’am. That was good,” I said, glancing at her. I didn’t want to look at her too long. I knew what I would find in her face, and I didn’t want to see it.
“You want to walk?” I said to Jefferson.
He moved on the bench without answering. You could hear the chains around his ankles as he swung his legs over the bench, then he braced his cuffed hands against the table to push himself up. We started walking around the room. Miss Emma watched us. My aunt and the minister went on eating, but they did not seem to be enjoying their food.
“Jefferson, I want us to be friends,” I said. “Not only you and me, but I want you to be friends with your nannan. I want you to be more than a godson to her. A godson obeys, but a friend—well, a friend would do anything to please a friend.” We were passing by the table, so I lowered my voice. Jefferson shuffled along beside me, his cuffed hands hanging below his waist, his shoulders too close together, his head down. “A friend does a lot of little things,” I went on. “It would mean so much to her if you would eat some of the gumbo.” I stopped when we came to the corner of the room. He stopped too, his head still down. “Look at me, Jefferson, please,” I said. He raised his head slowly. I smiled at him. “Will you be her friend? Will you eat some of the gumbo? Just a little bit? One spoonful?” He made a slight nod. I smiled at him again.
“Jefferson,” I said. We had started walking. “Do you know what a hero is, Jefferson? A hero is someone who does something for other people. He does something that other men don’t and can’t do. He is different from other men. He is above other men. No matter who those other men are, the hero, no matter who he is, is above them.” I lowered my voice again until we had passed the table. “I could never be a hero. I teach, but I don’t like teaching. I teach because it is the only thing that an educated black man can do in the South today. I don’t like it; I hate it. I don’t even like living here. I want to run away. I want to live for myself and for my woman and for nobody else.
“That is not a hero. A hero does for others. He would do anything for people he loves, because he knows it would make their lives better. I am not that kind of person, but I want you to be. You could give something to her, to me, to those children in the quarter. You could give them something that I never could. They expect it from me, but not from you. The white people out there are saying that you don’t have it—that you’re a hog, not a man. But I know they are wrong. You have the potentials. We all have, no matter who we are.
“Those out there are no better than we are, Jefferson. They are worse. That’s why they are always looking for a scapegoat, someone else to blame. I want you to show them the difference between what they think you are and what you can be. To them, you’re nothing but another nigger—no dignity, no heart, no love for your people. You can prove them wrong. You can do more than I can ever do. I have always done what they wanted me to do, teach reading, writing, and arithmetic. Nothing else—nothing about dignity, nothing about identity, nothing about loving and caring. They never thought we were capable of learning these things. ‘Teach those niggers how to print their names and how to figure on their fingers.’ And I went along, but hating myself all the time for doing so.”
We were coming up to the table again, and the ones at the table were quiet and trying to hear what we were saying. I did not start talking again until we had passed them.
“Do you know what a myth is, Jefferson?” I asked him. “A myth is an old lie that people believe in. White people believe that they’re better than anyone else on earth—and that’s a myth. The last thing they ever want is to see a black man stand, and think, and show that common
humanity that is in us all. It would destroy their myth. They would no longer have justification for having made us slaves and keeping us in the condition we are in. As long as none of us stand, they’re safe. They’re safe with me. They’re safe with Reverend Ambrose. I don’t want them to feel safe with you anymore.
“I want you to chip away at that myth by standing. I want you—yes, you—to call them liars. I want you to show them that you are as much a man—more a man than they can ever be. That jury? You call them men? That judge? Is he a man? The governor is no better. They play by the rules their forefathers created hundreds of years ago. Their forefathers said that we’re only three-fifths human—and they believe it to this day. Sheriff Guidry does too. He calls me Professor, but he doesn’t mean it. He calls Reverend Ambrose Reverend, but he doesn’t respect him. When I showed him the notebook and pencil I brought you, he grinned. Do you know why? He believes it was just a waste of time and money. What can a hog do with a pencil and paper?”
We stopped. His head was down.
“Look at me, Jefferson, please,” I said.
He raised his head. He had been crying. He raised his cuffed hands and wiped one eye, then the other.
“I need you,” I told him. “I need you much more than you could ever need me. I need to know what to do with my life. I want to run away, but go where and do what? I’m needed here and I know it, but I feel that all I’m doing here is choking myself. I need someone to tell me what to do. I need you to tell me, to show me. I’m no hero; I can just give something small. That’s all I have to offer. It is the only way that we can chip away at that myth. You—you can be bigger than anyone you have ever met.
“Please listen to me, because I would not lie to you now. I speak from my heart. You have the chance of being bigger than anyone who has ever lived on that plantation or come from this little town. You can do it if you try. You have seen how Mr. Farrell makes a slingshot handle. He starts with just a little piece of rough wood—any little piece of scrap wood—then he starts cutting. Cutting and cutting and cutting, then shaving. Shaves it down clean and smooth till it’s not what it was before, but something new and pretty. You know what I’m talking about, because you have seen him do it. You had one that he made from a piece of scrap wood. Yes, yes—I saw you with it. And it came from a piece of old wood that he found in the yard somewhere. And that’s all we are, Jefferson, all of us on this earth, a piece of drifting wood, until we—each one of us, individually—decide to become something else. I am still that piece of drifting wood, and those out there are no better. But you can be better. Because we need you to be and want you to be. Me, your godmother, the children, and all the rest of them in the quarter. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Jefferson? Do you?”
Lesson Before Dying Page 17
