Dark Don't Catch Me (20 page)

I
F YOU'RE
not special,
act
special! That's all special is.” Al had told Millard that; had said
just make it so, boy, and suddenly you know you are special. You're somebody and you feel that you are special, and that's all special is.

Like Millard Post is now, knows it, feels it, coming up from The Toe with Claus, his cousin.

It feels good to Millard. He has made it something big; created it that morning at breakfast as he sat at the kitchen table while his Aunt Bissy gave him grits — god-awful mush in a cracked pink bowl — and told him he'd be pretty much on his own; told him he'd come at a bad time — like f'Chrissake he'd
wanted
to come — and his grandmother sat in a chair rocking and smoking a pipe like some kind of back-woods hillbilly and made some tart remark about his clothes:
All dress up like you had a purpose.
Then and there he'd remembered what Al had said, and in his mind he'd started to make it happen, to feel it, until now he does. It feels nearly real.

It is a gift, this feeling he has made; a reward, maybe — maybe a kind of reward for yesterday; for last night's gutless agony, the child-lost loneliness that visited those hours when others slept and gave no name to Millard he could curse; and the morning that began to ignore him, until he could counter and sass it back.

It is a gift and Millard basks in it; walks straight and tall and cool because of it; sets his face in the sullen and sure expression of the special, that same expression all the Panthers acquire when they “fall in” at a dance. They make their entrance en masse, all of them glancing around at the surroundings with stony indifference, cool style, fine and clean. He holds his shoulders back and lets his eyes meet the sun directly. Over his arm he carries his leather gang jacket, and his left hand, sunk into the pocket of his sweet-tapered slacks, plays with change, making a jingle … A little behind him, at his heels, his cousin follows him; wide-eyed, idolizing, servile, like a punk pushing after a big man, hoping some of it will rub off.

It is nearly noon; they are on their way to the Black Patch across from the county courthouse. There they will meet Major Post and eat lunch with him out of the brown paper sack Millard's aunt made up for the three of them….

Back home, the kids would be heading for the cafeteria …

Back home, it'd be cool, jacket-wearing weather …

Back home — but what the Christ! This is Paradise, and Millard Post is special. Say it, act it, that's all special is — even a million miles from nowhere. Like Al said, just make it so!

• • •

It's lunch hour out behind the Paradise Feed Company. Jack Rowan wads up the wax paper his sandwiches were wrapped in, and leans his head back against the wooden beam by the loading platform. He says to Pit Raleigh, “Boy, he's working us today, nigger.”

Raleigh swigs from the neck of a Coke bottle. “Ain't
that
the truth!” He spits and wipes his mouth off on the back of his strong dark wrist, scratches his head under his cap, and sighs. Staring out at the dust-dry road behind Main Street, leading out of The Toe, he moans, “Yeah, yeah,” while he squints ahead of him. Then he leans forward. “Hey, lookit, Jack.”

“Huh?”

“Lookit what's paradin' our way wid Major Post's brother.”

Rowan moves his head to see, studies the tall, neatly dressed light-colored Negro boy walking with Claus; Claus jumping up and down beside him like a yo-yo as they come along; the boy placid-looking, his countenance keen-eyed, confident. He's wearing a white shirt, navy blue pants, a gold watch chain by Gawd, loafers and good-looking store-bought red socks. “Shh-eet! Who de hell's dat?”

“I don't know, Jack, but he certainly do recommen' hisself mos' high!”

“I know who dat is, nigger, S'that up-North cousin they was spectin. Sheet, yeah; dat's who!” “Oh yeah?”

“Sure, sheet. Dat's who.” “Comin' our way.”

“Uh-huh.”

Rowan and Raleigh sit up and watch, wearing their wash-worn, faded blue denim coveralls, their shoulders and arms naked where the coveralls end, dust from the sacks they've wielded on their backs through the morning clinging to the sweat of their bodies, their ankle-high shoes stuck on their naked feet and laced loosely to let in air. They watch, waiting for the pair to get closer.

Claus says, “Hi, fellers. We on our way to meet Major.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Claus grins widely, tugging on Millard Post's sleeve. “This is my cousin Miller.” Millard jerks his sleeve free and looks calmly at the two boys sitting on the ground, while Claus adds brightly, “From up North in New York City.”

Millard says, “How's it hanging?”

“Heavy,” Rowan says.

Raleigh says, “Could be lighter.”

Millard stands there, one hand sunk into his trousers pocket tinkling the change there. Rowan and Raleigh regard him head to toe. Millard feels their eyes on him; let ‘em look!

“He sleeps in pajamas,” Claus says. “Top and bottom.”

Millard growls, “What else is new?” turning his head nonchalantly, pretending to regard the back of the stores along the street; an eyebrow raised for effect.

“Now,
do
tell!” Jack Rowan cackles, “You hear dat, Pit?”

“Sho! I hear up North dey don't even take dem off to fug; jest fug right through dem.”

Millard looks down at them coolly, takes his hand out of his pocket, folds his arms across his chest, smoothing out his jacket, and stands spread-legged looking down at them.

“Is dat de truth, Yankee boy?” Rowan says.

“They only ribbin' you, Miller.” Claus grins.

“I got eyes,” Millard answers. He says to Rowan: “Sometimes they screw with ‘em on, sometimes with ‘em off.”

“They only ribbin' you, Miller.”

“Can it, Claude!”

“He call me Claude and not Claus.” Claus Post giggles. “He says Claus ain't no name at all.”

“You gonna be around long?” Rowan asks. Millard shrugs. “Couple days.”

“Up North where he come from his daddy bosses the yelevators!” Claus Post announces. “Dey cain't go up and dey cain't go down, lessen his daddy say it.” “Aw, Claude, can it!”

“Yeah, Claus,” Rowan says. “Let him talk his own self … Yeah, tell us more about up North, nigger. So dey hump wid ‘em on sometimes, and sometimes wid ‘em off, hah?”

“A piece of ass is a piece of ass,” Millard says.

Claus Post puts in, “Some are oven-belly bitches, I'm sure to tell you.”

“G'wan, Santa Claus,” Raleigh laughs. “Whata
you
know, you little inch.”

Rowan doesn't take his eyes off Millard Post. “Tell me, Yankee,” he says. “You ever humped with a white girl?”

“If the mood hit me, yeah.”

“You kiddin'? You had white meat?” Raleigh asks. Millard Post puts a hand to his mouth, feigning a yawn. “That news?”

“He belong to a club,” Claus Post says. “He's got a black panther on the back of dat jacket he carryin', wid his name on it in solid gold.”

“Let's see,” Rowan says.

Millard takes his time unfolding the jacket and showing them the back. He says, “We all got jackets like this. What the hell!” He folds it back and shifts his weight to his other foot.

“We don't got no jackets wid our names in gold, have we, nigger?”

“Ain't
that
the truth!”

“He come down here by air-o-plane,” Claus says. “An he's got stickers to prove it too.” “Yeah? That right, Yankee?” “Sure.”

“Sheet, I didn't believe him. Do you, Pit?” “Not a word, Jack; not a word.”

“I don't believe he knocked up any white gal neither, do you, Pit?”

“Naw, Jack. Uh-uh. He be scared.”

Millard smirks. “You guys flipping your lids? White girls dime a dozen up home.”

Rowan nudges Raleigh and says to Millard, “Down here's the same way. White women come to The Toe hot and begging. You better not sit out on de Post porch after dark. Dem white women come in droves just pantin' for some jog-jog.”

“They just ribbin' you, Miller.”

“I'm hip!” Millard Post says.

“We got to go meet Major,” Claus announces.

“We ain't ribbin',” Rowan says. “Oh, we got good times in Paradise. You jest don't know. Haven't we, Pit?”

“Sure, Jack. Big ole high times we got!”

“We ought to show you around later, Yankee. Huh?”

“I don't mind,” Millard says, pleased now, glad they want to impress him.

“Sho, Jack, we oughtta,” Raleigh agrees.

“Course,” Jack Rowan says, “I still of not believin' his story about humping white tail, but that don't have to spoil me from showing him our sights. An' after all, you
is
Major Post's from-up-North cousin!”

“You show me some white tail, I'll show
you
what to do,” Millard Post answers curtly.

Pit Raleigh guffaws: “Yeah, boy, we jest might do that too!”

Rowan glances up behind him at the company clock, stretches, and pulls himself to his feet. “How ‘bout me and Pit meet you later on in the day, ‘round six o'clock, when we finish up.”

“Sure,” Millard says.

Claus Post beams. “My cousin sho am poplar.” “Oh, we're doin' it for Major mostly, ain't we, Pit?” “Sure, Jack,” Raleigh answers. “We jest crazy ‘bout Major.”

• • •

Coming out of the small red brick clinic that afternoon, carrying his black physician's bag and rushing so that he does not see where he is going, Doctor Edward James collides with the Reverend Joh Greene on the winding cement sidewalk.

“I beg you pardon, Reverend.”

“Hello, Doc. How are you?”

“Fine, but very rushed. Old Mrs. Downs out on the highway's got a stroke.”

“Wait just a minute, Doc.” The reverend catches the small man's coat sleeve. “Could you kindly take just a minute, Doc? I came out here especially to see you.”

“Me, Reverend?”

“I'll be brief and to the point, Doc.” “Yes sir?”

“You know, Doc. I never have made a practice of butting my nose in on matters that pertain to The Toe. You got your own minister for that, and I think he does a right good job, on the whole. Why, I have the highest respect for Reverend Fisher!”

“Yes, Reverend?”

“What I mean, Doc, is if I thought he could talk to you about this matter, I would not hesitate to let him. I never have made a practice of selling in another man's territory, particularly when we're selling — basically — pretty near the same product.”

“Is something wrong, Reverend?”

“Wrong, Doc? Well, I don't know about
wrong.
Something's just a bit off kilter, I'd say. I mean, I'm going to come right to the point because I know you're in a hurry … Something is going on that isn't
right.
It isn't right in the eyes of the community, and it isn't a very good advertisement for the Lord Jesus either in the Toe or in the rest of Paradise.”

Doctor James looks carefully at the reverend. “I
may
know about it already,” he says.

“About your daughter, Doc? You know about it?”

“Yes, Reverend. I do.”

“Now, Hollis Jordan may not be a very reliable sort of — ”

Doctor James straightens himself and snaps angrily, “He certainly is not! Don't gloss over it for me, Reverend. I quite agree that it is not right; I'm thoroughly disheartened at Barbara's behavior.”

Reverend Joh smiles benignly. “You know, Doc James, that's the word I've been searching for since I first learned of this matter. That's the word that most truly expresses my own reaction. I was disheartened too. Sorely disheartened.”

“I'm searching my soul, Reverend, to find some course of action to stop this immediately, and I think this morning at breakfast I found it. It's worth
a
try.”

“Doc, I knew you'd be a man I could approach directly. We both know things like this have happened before in Paradise, but — ”

“Not in
my
family, Reverend.”

“Exactly! You've always lived like a decent colored man, Doc. You don't want anything that isn't rightly yours, and you don't want your family to step outa bounds either. Now I
know
that.”

The doctor stands silently for
a
moment, then says more quietly, “Thank you, Reverend, for confirming my suspicions. It makes me more sure my course of action is the right one.”

“Not at all, Doc. I'm glad we could hash this thing out.”

“Good day, Reverend,” Doctor James says.

Joh smiles. “Bye, boy. And give my highest regards to Reverend Fisher.”

• • •

Kate Bailey rocks, darning socks, the afternoon sun streaming in on the glass shelf with its motley antique pitcher collection. Her mind wanders from the symphony on the radio back to the morning and her conversation with Storey about last night, and about Vivian Hooper. It had embarrassed her to a point of near tears at the time, to a point where Storey had to shout at her: “Well, if you want to hear my explanation, stop pounding the piano, Kate!”

And she had wanted to say, “If I stop, I'll cry,” but she would have cried if she had tried to say it; and so summoning up all the self-control she possessed, she had taken her hands from the keys, folded them in her lap; looked hard at them; and let him continue.

“Now, Kate, you
know
there are women like that. There's a name for them. A scientific name even. I mean I'm not just making it up. There's a scientific name for them!”

“But not Vivie,” she had murmured; yet she had thought to herself, Yes, maybe; remembering Thad's eagle-eye way of watching her, his possessiveness, and his reluctance to let her too long out of his sight, a characteristic of Thad's that Kate had always pitied Vivian for. She had thought often what a shame it was Vivie could not take up an instrument and meet afternoons with the Bigger Band, and felt vaguely uncomfortable at those times when Thad would flare up at Vivie over some little thing like that day at the Legion picnic when he criticized her for letting her skirt fly up while she was swinging; and Kate had imagined simply that it was a price Vivian Hooper paid for being so beautiful, so very beautiful that a man who had won her, even a strong man like Thad, must always be wary of losing her even in Paradise where almost nothing like
that
ever went on….