Darby (13 page)

“Hey, Elwood,” I called back.

Running toward Ellan, I went through the back door and slumped against a wall to read my article beneath an electric light.

In the morning, while we were eating breakfast, somebody knocked at our back door. Annie Jane went down, and a few minutes later she escorted a black man up to the kitchen. He was tall and strong-seeming.

He told us all, “Morning ma’ams and sirs. I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”

Daddy stood. “Jerome, what can I help you with?”

Jerome didn’t meet my daddy in the eye. He looked awkward, and after a moment I recognized that he was the man from Beth’s daddy’s office, the man whose boy had been killed.

“Are you okay?” Daddy asked him.

Nodding, the man kept his pupils glued to his crackled boots. “Sir, I am okay, except . . . well . . . I got myself another situation, is all.”

“Go on,” Daddy said.

“All right, Mr. Carmichael. Yes, all right. I’m gonna say ’cause my new problem is my family. We been kicked offa Mr. Dunn’s property, and he says if we come back or makes more trouble round Marlboro County, we gonna get ourselves kilt.”

Daddy stared at him before asking, “When did this happen?”

“Two nights back, sir. We been staying off in the woods near McPherson’s Pond, but we can’t do that forever. See, I didn’t wanna come here.”

“It’s all right,” my daddy told him.

“It’s just we got nowheres to go. We don’t got nothin’, really.”

Daddy said, “Do you have family somewhere?”

“Up in Fayetteville, sir. They’s the closest. I got me a sister’d take us in.”

Daddy studied the air in front of him. “Well, we gotta get you up to Fayetteville. You can’t stay around these parts anymore. I’m sorry.”

“That’s . . . that’s okay, sir. I knows it myself.”

Mama frowned at my daddy. “Sherman, what are you thinking?” She stared at him. “You can’t take them up to Fayetteville, not with all that’s been happening.You need to mind your own business is what you need. You need to think about this family and our place in the community.”

For the first time I can remember, though, Daddy ignored Mama. Looking over at McCall, he asked, “You think you can run the store this morning?”

McCall told him, “I can do it, yeah.”

“All you gotta do is take notes as to who’s buying what. This time a year we rarely have people pay cash.”

“Yes, sir,” McCall said.

Standing, Mama threw down her napkin and marched out of the kitchen.

Daddy said, “McCall, if anyone asks, you tell them I’m up in Laurinburg for the morning. You say I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“I don’t gotta go to school when you return, do I?”

Daddy said, “I suppose not, McCall. You get the day off.”

“Can I help?” I asked, wanting the day off, too.

Daddy nodded. “Darby, sweetie, you can help by not saying anything to anyone about this. Nothing. You just go on to school like normal. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, feeling low, like I didn’t have a real mission.

Daddy asked Jerome, “Do you have a lot of belongings with you?”

Jerome shook his head. “Near ’bouts nothing, sir. We don’t got nothin’ ’cause Mr. Dunn didn’t give us no time to collect stuff. We grabbed up a few things, two pictures of Devin and some clothes.”

“Jerome,” Daddy said, “I’m sorry. I really am. But we have to get y’all out of here. That’s what’s important right now.”

During school, I imagined my daddy’s car sputtering north, past Laurinburg and up toward North Carolina. I imagined Jerome and his wife and daughter scrunched flat down in the back seat so that no one would see them. I could picture the blue sky, and I saw the sun gleaming on the car’s hood and my daddy talking to the Hawkins family as they went, as mosquito hawks flew up around the windows and bright red songbirds swooped over the fields. It’s such a pretty drive, it didn’t seem like anything bad could happen to anyone between Bennettsville and North Carolina. Then, before lunch, a terrible picture came into my head. The Ku Klux Klan men stopped Daddy’s car. Jumping out, they set off their shotguns into Daddy and the Hawkins family. I nearly screamed out loud.

Miss Burstin stopped what she was doing and asked me if I was feeling okay.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered her with a catch in my throat.

“You look pale.”

“I’m okay, ma’am.”

At lunch break, I trod slowly down the Murchison School’s steps. As I walked across the pretty front lawn, doodlebugs scurried in the dirt when my feet came down. I went on down the street and arrived at Mr. Salter’s office, where I shoved the door open and stepped in. Then I got out my newspaper notebook, which was already unraveling because I hadn’t made it as good as the first one.

“Well, hello, Darby,” Mr. Salter called from behind his desk.

“Hey, Mr. Salter,” I answered.

He ducked his head to get a better sight of my face. “You okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You got another story for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s exciting,” he declared. Tilting back in his chair, he told me, “Everyone loved the piece about your uncle. I had so many compliments I stopped keeping count. I hope people told you.”

“People said nice things,” I promised him.

“It was a great story,” he said. “Readers like what you have to say and the way you say it.”

“That’s real good, sir,” I said.

Untilting in his chair, Mr. Salter leaned forward. He wiped an inky hand through his dark hair. “Darby, is something wrong?”

I said, “No, sir.” I lifted up my newspaper notebook for him. “You think you might wanna put this story in the paper, too?”

Taking it, he said, “If I didn’t, the whole town would tar and feather me.” Relaxed, he cracked open my notebook and looked over my newest column. It started by saying how surprised I was to hear that black people up North lived in nice neighborhoods and that some owned things like houses and cars. Then I told how I thought it was strange because I’d never seen such a thing. But it was true, and it seemed funny to me that it could be that way somewhere else but not in Marlboro County. To me, it proved that people want nearly the same thing in the world. They want to own nice stuff and live in a nice way. I also said it was sad how the oldest black men have to take their hats off when they talk to white folks, no matter how young, which doesn’t make any sense and must be awfully embarrassing on top of that.

I wrote how things should be done more evenly, and that everybody ought to get respect for being friendly instead of being white or black. I finished the newspaper column by saying that nobody wants to live knowing that things won’t ever be nice, and I hoped that one day a black tenant farmer would roar through town in the prettiest Cadillac ever, and maybe if a white man needed a ride home, he’d give him one.

When Mr. Salter was finished, his throat made a funny clicking sound. With his mouth flat and bothered-looking, he said, “This is very different from the other two. It’s got its flaws and all, but . . . it’s good. It’s just inflammatory. You know what that means?”

“No, sir.”

“It means it’s rabble-rousing, that it could cause some folks to react in an angry fashion, which is, in some cases, perfect. There’s a whole school of journalism that’s devoted to stirring up trouble. It’s called muckraking, and it’s helped change a lot of people’s feelings about issues. The thing is . . . Marlboro County is already jumpy and unstable because of what happened out at Turpin Dunn’s place. We got some folks who feel a crime was committed, and others that don’t see anything wrong, and they’re at each other’s throats.” Mr. Salter toppled his head back and looked straight at the ceiling like it might give him an idea. “See what I mean?”

Disappointed, I asked, “You’re worried about your windows getting broken?”

“My windows, my business, and my family. If I print something like this, some people might say I got strange political leanings or that I’m not patriotic or something. I don’t know. It could cause me some real trouble.”

Mr. Salter’s body sagged. “Darby, sweetie, your writing is a gift. I hope you recognize that. You’re gonna have a lot of years to hash out these sorts of issues. You’re good. I promise. But I can’t run this type of story. I just can’t.”

I looked away. My heart was pounding in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

But that didn’t make me feel better. It didn’t make sense. Why couldn’t he put a small column about blacks in his paper without worrying? It was no wonder I hadn’t ever heard of black people owning houses and cars. Nobody could write anything good about them. “Can . . . can I have my notebook back?”

Mr. Salter weighed it in his hands, then put it on his desk. He put up a finger and reached into a drawer. Rummaging around, he found three professional notepads, which he gave me.

Holding them, so perfect and clean, I wanted to smile but I couldn’t.

He said, “I’m giving you those so that you’ll keep writing. Okay? You should. You got a good conscience and a kind personality. I don’t want the fact that I’m not taking this story to discourage you.”

Flipping through the blank pages, I said flatly, “These even got lines to write on.”

“Yeah, they do.”

“They’re nice.”

Lifting my head, I asked again, “Mr. Salter, since you don’t want it, can I also have my story back?”

“Oh, yeah, Darby. Sure.” He laughed. “It’s . . . it’s just that I don’t wanna let it go. It’s good. I mean, I kind of see this as a lesson in humanity from the mouth of a child.”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

He chuckled and told me, “I’m just spouting third-rate philosophy.”

Confused, I said, “So can I have it back, sir?”

Taking a deep breath, he handed me my story. “Write something else,” he said. “You write some more. People like your column.”

“I’m gonna write something, maybe tonight.”

Mr. Salter took his hands and massaged his face. “Now, Darby, I’m as guilty as everyone else.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Salter?” I asked, but I sort of understood.

Balling up a fist, he thumped it on his desk. “Never mind.”

That afternoon, I searched out the school windows so that I might spot my daddy’s Buick go by on the street. There are about ten different routes into town, though, so I knew he could come back another way. Still, I had to look. Even during our spelling test, I watched the road and couldn’t concentrate. I knew I was misspelling nearly every word, but I couldn’t help it.

Miss Burstin came over and kneeled beside my chair. “Darby, are you feeling okay?” she whispered.

“Almost, ma’am,” I told her.

“You look out of sorts, child, and you skipped lunch earlier.”

Swallowing, I told her, “I went to see Mr. Salter about a new story, is why I didn’t eat.”

She nodded. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you enjoy writing, but a growing girl needs nourishment.”

“I guess,” I said, suddenly starving. “He didn’t want it anyway,” I told her. After saying that, I nearly started to cry. My stomach felt knotted up like a croaker sack.

Miss Burstin gave me a hug. She said, “Sweetheart, if you’re going to make a career of writing, you’re going to have to get used to rejection. But it hurts. It stings.”

I pointed at the test paper in front of me. “For some reason, I can’t think.”

She nodded. “Why don’t you retake the test tomorrow. How about that?”

I answered, “Thank you, Miss Burstin. That’d be better.”

“Good,” she whispered, and stood. Walking up to her desk, she fetched something from a drawer and came back and put five saltines beside my paper. Clapping her hands, she called out, “Five minutes! Don’t forget,
i
before
e
except after
c.
It’s a rule.”

At the end of the school day, I said goodbye to Beth, who begged me to go home with her. When I told her I couldn’t, she said, “Please, please, please!” But I lied and said that my daddy had given me an instruction, and I couldn’t get out of it. So I wandered up the street to the Carmichael Block. Off in the distance, a barrier of clouds looked like giant bales of unwashed cotton. They seemed stacked up toward the top of the sky, heavy and solid with dirty white tops and undersides. For some reason, they made the sunlight extra yellow.

Anxious, I went slowly down Main Street. When I got to Carmichael Dry Goods, I waited and waited till I got up my nerve. Then I turned and pushed through the front door.

Daddy was there, talking to Mr. Salter and leaning against the counter.

“Hey, Daddy! I can’t believe you got back already!”

“Hey, Darby. Yeah, I did. I returned a while ago.”

Mr. Salter said, “Hello there, Darby.”

Relieved that my daddy was back, I didn’t feel so bad about my story. I said, “Hello, sir.”

“You look happy,” Daddy said.

I told him, “I’m just glad about stuff, is all.” I wanted so bad for him to pick me up like I was a little kid, but I knew he wouldn’t. Slipping my books alongside his elbow, I patted one of his hands.

Mr. Salter said, “Darby, you know what me and your daddy were discussing?”

“What, sir?”

“Your daddy and I have been talking about your new story. Matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. He thought you’d be going home with Beth, but I guess he was wrong, which is fortunate for me because I’d like to show him your article. Do you mind? What I told him is, if he approves, I’m gonna run it tomorrow.”

I stared at him for a second. “Really?” I shouted.

“Yes, Darby, if he approves.”

“Do you, Daddy?” I asked.

“First I have to read it.”

Diving for my books, I pulled out my newspaper notebook and gave it to him. “It’s the first thing,” I said.

Flipping it open, Daddy looked at me, cleared his throat, and read. Scowling the entire way, he didn’t seem to like it much.

When he was done, I stared at him.

Daddy scratched his chin. Placing my story on the counter, he took a long draw of wind, and said, “I like it. It’s strong and thoughtful, especially for a nine-year-old. The thing is, I was hoping we wouldn’t have to think more about this sort of thing for a while. Big Darby absolutely hates the way Marlboro County seems so rancorous and divided these days.” He flicked a wad of dust off the side of the cash register.