Dark Don't Catch Me (21 page)

Once, on television, Kate had seen a play about a beautiful woman whose husband forbade her to do any of the shopping in town, for fear she would meet another man. He forced her to spend all her time with him, and wherever she went, he went, always walking close beside her, with his hand touching some part of her, and his eyes never off her. While everyone in the community gossiped about it, and pitied the woman because of it, her husband never relented in this manner of treating his wife. Then one day, when a close friend came for tea with her, and managed while he was out of the room, to ask her how she stood it, the beautiful woman said: “Oh, I know that it does
seem
confining. But I stand it much easier, perhaps, than my husband. For I love him very much, and I
know
he loves me. But he, poor darling, is never quite sure … So it keeps us together a good deal of the time, and in the long run — I wouldn't have it any other way.” The picture faded out on her smiling face as she added, “He's quite charming, you know — but of course, you
don't
know. How could you?”

Kate had sat puzzling after; trying to decide whether it made any sense; and glancing over at Storey, she had said:

“I don't know why I think of Vivie and Thad, but it reminded me of them.”

Storey had said, “Heck, Viv is a lot better-looking than that skinny toothpick.”

“No, I mean — they're sort of together all the time.”

“Thad don't have to worry about Vivs,” Storey had yawned. “A guy like
Thad
worry about his wife!”

• • •

Mulling it all over in her mind, Kate decides probably Storey was telling the truth about last night — about his sudden discovery that Vivian Hooper was one of
those
women — but it had pained her to hear him say:

“… and I suppose she just couldn't stand it any longer or something. She and Thad were having that spat and she just had to have some loving. Didn't have to be me — could have been anyone.”

“Then why was it you, Storey?” Kate had come close to bursting right into tears, because a thing like this had never threatened their marriage before, and because they had never once actually sat face to face and discussed the fact of sex. In bed, in the hushed darkness, they had often whispered about it; they were well aware that their sex together was good; and Kate often fancied it was more imaginative, too, than most of the couples she and Storey knew; that it was perhaps somehow unique.

In Paradise it was not common practice among the women to confide their feelings about the intimacies of marriage; but things were dropped now and then, and Kate Bailey had gradually begun to learn that there was a surprising lack of actual passion among those of her friends to whom she was closest. Marianne Ficklin, for instance, had spoken once of how she sometimes dreaded “those fifteen minutes every third night, like clockwork, when the urge comes over Fick just as we get into bed.” She had added: “Sometimes I just wish it'd take seventeen minutes, it'd happen in the middle of the night, or we'd do it on the living room rug — anything to stop the monotony of routine. But I'm just a rebel, I guess; always have been.”

Hearing her say that, Kate's mind had wandered back to all the nights and days, and
ways,
which she and Storey had had; and she had felt suddenly gratified to realize that they were — she had heard the expression somewhere —
good in bed
together, not dull victims of routine, not tired old married folk.

So it had stunned Kate to know that Storey was vulnerable to Vivian Hooper. Even though it was little more than an embrace between them, it had stunned her and disappointed her that he could be tempted by the kind of woman he said she was.

“Because,” he had said, “I happened along, and Kate, I'm only
human.”
“Human?”

“A man is a man. Even when he's happily married.”

“But, Storey, she wanted just
anybody.
Not just you. You said that yourself. That makes it seem so — common. Why you had to go ahead and — ” Her voice had trailed off.

“Kate, you've always agreed she was attractive.”

“Yes, I've always admitted that.”

“Well, Kate, don't you see? It was just one of those things. I had a lot to drink and she — well, she seduced me, damn it!”

“All right,” she had said. “I guess it's just silly to carry on about a little thing like that … but it seemed — maybe it still seems — like a big thing, Storey.” And she had left it at that, thinking that it had dulled some of the shine of her sense of security with Storey, even though Vivian Hooper was a vamp. Kate had always been so sure that despite her physical plainness, she was the only woman who could arouse in Storey the lust their marriage reveled in as love.

Storey had sworn — she hadn't asked him to — that it would never happen again. “Gawd, how
could
it, Kate?” he had said. “Don't you think I feel pretty tacky for even touching her?”

And when he had left the house after breakfast and started toward his car, she had watched him without his knowing it from the dining room window, hoping that what did happen would — that he would turn and come back, despite the fact it was payday at the mill and the time lost would make the day even more harassed than usual.

Letting it all fade now from her consciousness, Kate Bailey rocks and darns, until eventually she is concerned half with reminding herself to send a spray to the Pirkles for the funeral, and half with concentrating on Mozart's
Jupiter.

• • •

“What do you study?” Major Post asks, ripping the wax paper off the sandwich, propping himself against a tree in Black Patch, gulping a bite from the bread hungrily.

“Save that paper,” Claus tells him. “Ma say to save it,” he says, reaching for the frail wrapping Major has absently tossed to the ground. He folds it carefully.

“Books,” Millard answers, squatting but not touching the ground; keeping his sweet-tapered pants clean.

“Naw, I mean,
what?
History? English? Arithmetic?”

“All that stuff.”

“What're you going to be?”

“You going to get the stomach cramps, you gulp like that, brother,” Claus says.

“Can't help it, got to get back to Ficklins'. She sure has the bug today. Moving things around. Move this, move that. That's why I was late. Got to get back.” He swallows another huge piece of the sandwich and asks Millard Post again, “You know what you're going to be?”

“I got contacts,” Millard answers.

“What you mean?”

“Big men!” Millard says. “I know plenty.” “Lawyers?”

“Lawyers? What for? I mean big money men.” “I don't follow you.” “Big shots.
You
know.” “What's their line?”

Claus Post says, “Miller had him white tail. Lotsa times!” Major Post glares at his brother. “You shut up!” he says. “You little clown! Where the hell you get so big you got to talk smart?”

“I'm sorry,” Claus murmurs.

“I have,” Millard Post says, “but that's not news.”

“I'll tell you different.” Major stops eating and looks at him carefully. “You want trouble down here you keep thinking that isn't news, boy. Hear?”

Millard turns his eyes from his cousin and shrugs.

“I mean it!” Major Post says.

“Okay! Okay! Don't blow your top!”

“I don't care how you talk up North, you just put on the brake pedal down here.”

“I know. I been all through it.” “All through what?”

“Traveling. I know.” Millard claps his hands together and cracks his knuckles. “Came down in a goddam DC-Six.” “Yeah?” “You ever fly?” “Naw.”

“Big deal!” Millard shrugs. “Once you get off the ground it's not like anything. Nowhere. Everybody always talking about what a big deal it is to fly. Haw.”

Major continues to eat, watching his cousin thoughtfully, listening to him talk. Millard talks in an idle, compulsive way, finding it difficult to think of things to say to this big Negro with the somber eyes and great, strong build, feeling himself scrutinized by him and peeved, even resentful of the quick way Major Post had reprimanded him for talking about white women. Who the hell was
he
Major of; what the hell proof did he want? It was true — nearly true — that Millard had had a white girl in a gang line-up once, some little spic had spread for the Panthers, but Millard had not been able to do anything, and the other boys had pulled him off her. But it was nearly true; if he'd wanted it, he could have had it. And Major Post made out like he was just so much blow; well fug him, with his:
What do you study?
Why the hell didn't Major Post ask him where he got his sweet clothes? Bet Major never saw them sweeter, but he doesn't mention them; just a lot of polite crap about whadda you study. Didn't even notice the jacket: oh,
noticed
it all right. Just didn't say.

What're you going to be when you grow up?
Pansy birthday-party talk for four-year-olds.

Put on the brakes.
Afraid I'll show you up, boy? “The Panthers are the toughest gang up in the
barrio,”
Millard continues, “they can beat any — ” “What's that mean,
barrio?”

“It's a region. A section. I don't know what the word means. It's spic.”

“Oh.” Major Post wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and stretches.

“We have wars and everything. Rumbles.”

“Yeah?” Major looks at him coolly.

“People get killed. Man, like, they're
real
wars!”

“Yeah?” Claus Post says, his eyes saucer-wide. But Major Post acts like he doesn't hear; he pulls a weed from the lawn and sticks it in his teeth.

“I got to get back,” he says. “Have to hear about your wars some other time, Cousin Millard,” he says sort of sarcastically. Millard takes a burn at it — cocky square! What the hell's he know about wars with a fuggin Major for a name; why the hell can't he act like a cousin; show a little goddam interest; well, fug him and his mask for a face.

Major Post gets up. “Wanna remember something, Cousin,” he says, standing with his hands slipped into his rear pockets. “Don't know much about wars down here. Don't know much about big men, ‘cept big in
size,
see. That kinda big man totes easier than the rest. That's a big man down here. It's sorta different.”

Major and Millard eye one another momentarily; Millard thinking he'd like to
show
this guy, like to
show
him; Major thinking he should have let him blow his steam off, comes all the hell the way down for nothing. Should have let him strut, dumb kid's probably scared, strange place, kin carrying on like he's the Fuller Brush man staying overnight or something. Ought to do more for your own kin, but Lawd it don't work out that way, with the chores and the aches and the worlds apart kin from up North is. Lookit his clothes; dressed up like a band-box, playing tough and all. Should have given him more room to roll in, but we can study that tonight. Tonight he can play the colonel. What the hell — all the way from up North.

• • •

Major's face relaxes suddenly into a grin. He slaps Millard on the back. “Well, see you later,” he says. He smiles, meaning well. “Don't get the burying clothes dirty.” Must have bought them special for the funeral.

“These are just everyday,” Millard answers.

“Yeah?” Major patronizes him. “If you say so. Look right peart.”

And Millard senses that he is being patronized, senses it and resents it; how come that big boy thinks he's so special? What's the matter with everyone around here? Cripes, it's like another world. Man, it's like Mars.

F
ROM
inside the large, two-storied, white-colonnaded house, Marianne Ficklin watches Major Post as he comes up the front lawn from burning the trash, lugging the empty, dusty big aluminum can. As she watches him, she removes her black cotton gloves and black-veiled hat in an abstract fashion, setting them on the round redwood lamp table by her suede pocket-book, and on top the note from Fick announcing that he will be at a board of trustees meeting probably until after eight.

She is a small, Roux-flaxen-haired woman with a good shape, slightly too prominent bust-wise, so that she appears a trifle top-heavy; but slim, with fine thin legs; pretty-faced, with jade almond-shaped eyes; and a rather startlingly sensual-looking mouth for one with small, narrow lips.

It is just after six, still light outdoors but growing dark, and in the living room it's dim and shadowy. Restlessly she fumbles for a cigarette, scratches a match to light it, and lets the smoke out from her lungs in short, quick clouds. She waits until Major comes as far up the lawn as the cellar steps, where he is taking the trash can; then she raises the window and calls out to him.

“Yes, ma'am?” he says. “Oh, hello, ma'am. I didn't know you were back.”

“When you get down in the cellar, stay there, Major,” she tells him. “I want to go over my jams in the fruit cellar. I'll need help.” “Yes, ma'am.”

She stays at the window until he disappears down the steps, the aluminum clanking against the concrete walls as he goes into the cellar. Then she reaches into her pocketbook, digging for her lipstick and compact. Turning the lamp on, she studies her face as she repairs the makeup, then takes the little miniature atomizer from her change purse, and squirts some Arpege on her wrists….

The cellar is divided into three parts; the washroom, Fick's carpenter shop, and her canning closet. Major is standing by the door of the latter when she comes down the steps, and he moves back slightly as she approaches him, her hand reaching out for the doorknob. She turns around suddenly without opening the door and looks up at him.

“Did you get the bedroom furniture moved all right, Major?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You don't mind working a little late, do you, Major?” “No, ma'am. I guess not.”

“If I hadn't had to go to the Pirkles we could have done
all
this earlier today.” “Yes, ma'am.”

“Poor Colonel Pirkle … It was quite
a
shock to him,” she says, looking up at his eyes, which are lowered. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Cindy is working her fingers to the bone trying to get the house all in order for the funeral … Do you know Cindy, Major?”

“Cindy Bennett? Yes, ma'am. She lives near me.” “Do you ever take her — dancing, Major?” “I don't dance much, ma'am.”

She gives a little laugh. “Oh, no? I thought you all danced. The colored have such
a
good sense of rhythm. I just thought you'd probably be a dancer too.”

“I guess we better get those jams taken care of, ma'am. My cousin from up North is visiting me, and I'd like to get home for supper.”

“Oh?” She's slightly peeved. “Very well, Major. Come along.”

He follows her inside, where it is dark, and she says, “You want to reach up for that light, Major? I can't reach it.”

He turns it on, but it gives only a slight illumination.

“Down there are the peach jams,” she says. “We'll start down there. I'll check them, and hand those up to you which I want to take to the kitchen with me.”

She is wearing a black cotton sheath dress; high spike heels, and fine-gauge nylon stockings. As she squats to reach for the jams, her skirt slips up past her knees, an inch of the black lace of her petticoat shows.

“Let's see, this was January, last year … I didn't know we had any of that left. Here, Major, take this.” She hands it to him. “Well, do you ever take her
anywhere,
Major?”

“Pardon me, ma'am?”

“I said, do you ever take Cindy anywhere?” “No, ma'am.”

“Don't you have a girl friend, Major?” “Yes, ma'am.”

“I thought you would. A big boy like you … Umm-hm, this is last year's, too. We've got a lot more of it left than I thought. Here, Major, take this too … What do you and your girl friend do?”

“Same as anybody, I guess. Go on walks. To the pictures. Same as anybody.” Major sighs. “Oh? What's the sigh for, Major?” “I don't know, ma'am.” “You nervous about something?”

“No, ma'am, I haven't got anything to be nervous about.”

“Uh-huh, here's more … Major, why don't you kneel down here by me and help me look for them. Then we can just stack them, and take them out all at once.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

In the crowded area of the canning closet, Major stoops down beside her, straining his eyes to read the labels on the small Mason jars.

“Your cousin from New York arrived last night, Major?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What do you think of him?” “I don't know him too well.”

“Oh? … Here's a plum. What's that doing with the peach? Here, Major, take it.” She hands it to him, turning her body a little toward his, her legs parting at the knees, so that she squats in an open, spread-legged way. Major takes the jar from her, notices her position, and looks quickly back down at the bottles in front of him.

“I suppose your cousin will tell you all about life in the big city.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Would you like to go to New York, Major?” “I don't know, ma'am.”

“You'd probably like New York, Major … You know I'm a New Yorker.” “Yes, ma'am.”

“Up there things are different. More lenient, you know. Up there the colored can do just about as they please. I even went to school with colored.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Of course they're trying to get that rule passed down here, but I wonder if they ever will. Don't you?” “Yes, ma'am.”

“Would you like to go to school with white girls, Major?”

“I don't know, Miz Pirkle. I guess I don't care either way.”

“You can talk to me about it, Major. I'm not a Southerner. I went to school with colored, so you don't have to watch yourself around me.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Is that all you'll say?”

“What,
ma'am?” Major picks up a bottle, sets it aside, not looking at her.

“Stop a minute, Major.” He stops. “Ma'am?” “Look at me.”

Major looks once, sees the open legs — open so that he can see to her thighs — and looking up to her eyes, they meet his directly.

“I'm not like the others down here. You can trust me, Major.”

“Ma'am?” he asks, turning his glance away from her; feeling the heat climb in him. He's suddenly scared.

“No matter what you did, Major, you could trust me.”

“I didn't do anything, ma'am,” Major mumbles.

“No, but if you
wanted
to … Lots of times when I was young I wanted to do things I wouldn't do because I was afraid grown-ups would find out and punish me. It's like the colored down here. They're afraid to do things for what the whites will do to them … You can trust me, Major.”

“Yes, ma'am … There's nothing I want to do, but — ” “But what, Major? Hmmm?” Her hand brushes his knee. “But get my work done, ma'am.”

“Major, you can trust me. I'm telling you! Major, look at me!”

Major turns his head slowly, and does not dare to look below her eyes. She is staring hard at him, and he is aware of her legs spread as she squats, of her hand then, pulling her dress (down or up? No, Gawd, boy, you
know
up; you're not imagining this time, no, Gawd, boy!).

Suddenly, Major Post jerks himself to his feet, knocking over two jam jars as he does, bolting out of that room as she begins to scream at him, “Where are you going? You're not through! Come back here!” But Major is already halfway up the stairs and out of that house, shaking all over, and swearing inside of him at everything. Shaking and sweating and swearing — running.

• • •

Outside the Post shack in The Toe, sitting in the car waiting for Thad, Vivian Hooper reviews the day's incidents, and feels an immense shame for last night. The fact of Ada's death contributes to her depression, and the quarrel she had had with Thad at the barbecue which evoked such self-pity in her, and ultimately caused her to confess her thoughts to Storey, is no longer even clear in her mind.

Her mind is dominated now by one emotion — guilt. She is guilty at the fact she built the quarrel — what was it about? Simply that Thad wanted her to change her dress and she was stubborn — to such preposterous proportions, then exhibited her infantile anger by sulking, leaving her guests and sulking until Storey came along. How could she have ever reached such a nadir? Crying out to him like an alley cat in heat, offering herself to him like a lust-hungry bitch! How had she let that happen?

She muses that perhaps Thad is right about her “wiggling,” her clothes, her character — that part of her which she had always felt was simply a natural side to any woman, and which she had imagined Thad was just too damnably prudish about. Maybe Thad had been right all along. Storey never would have acted as he had last night if she hadn't provoked it
(What do

you think I want to do, hearing you talk this way?
he had said); and afterward, when they had broken away from each other suddenly at the sound of Kate's voice, Vivian Hooper had seen the sick look on Storey's face and known he would never forgive her for the shame he felt. Storey, who always spoke of Kate's goodness, was probably just as shocked as Thad at any sign in a female that she could
enjoy
the physical … God, maybe women really weren't supposed to enjoy that.

Then this morning had begun particularly badly. First with Vivian's awakening very early to realize her memory of all this; lying in her bed feeling the numb disbelief at what happened last night, followed by the agonized mumblings Thad had made in his sleep — the “No, please, Vivie! No, please!” which he had groaned out in such pitifully pained tones — and then the phone call from Doc Sell saying Ada had died — and the way Thad had responded with the strength and properness and appropriateness that characterized Thad Hooper.

He had said, “Whatever happened yesterday, honey, is pretty much outshadowed by this, isn't it? We've got to do what we can for Colonel and young Dix … I guess we never realize how fortunate we are until something like this shows us … Do you want to go over there for the evening to help out?”

There had been nothing more said about the barbecue, and she and Thad were their old selves again save for how
she
felt. As they drive to The Toe tonight — typically, Thad had not forgotten his responsibility to the Posts regarding the accident; and typically, too, he
had
forgotten his anger at Bryan — their palaver had been easy and warm and friendly. They had even seemed somehow closer than they had been in a long time.

Vivian Hooper wishes she could forget the guilt stealing all through her; and shut out the suspicion that Thad has been right all along about that side of her which she had always adamantly insisted was a natural part of being a woman.

Well, thank God for Thad, Vivian Hooper thinks.

Thinks: From now on I'll be what he wants me to be — all the way down the line.

• • •

The four boys wander down toward The Toe in an aimless, careless fashion; handing sass back and forth with studied nonchalance — Millard Post, Claus, Jack Rowan and Raleigh. They had met as they had arranged, at six, up in front of the feed store; and now they are scuffing their shoes along the dusty path, laughing and quarreling and teasing one another.

“Naw, I'm not lying either,” Millard Post snaps, more indignant now. “Why don't you dig me, man? I got news about white girls.”

They had been dwelling on this subject more than on any other, Rowan and Raleigh riding Millard about it, and Millard responding vehemently, slightly put out at their incredulousness but finding a rather easy camaraderie with them now knowing that they admire him, even envy him, despite the ribbing and the quibbling.

“What you think, Pit? He a liar?”

“Jack, I don't know, now. I don't know. ‘Member, he Major Post's cousin from up North.” Claus squeaks, “He mine too.”

“You squares ought to come up North and know what living is,” Millard says. “Up North you get a job, you get a real job, man. Not a cotton-picking job. I never even saw cotton before I got down here.”

“You saw white tail though,” Raleigh says, not letting Millard change the subject.

“I
told
you that! Man, you got a one-track mind!”

“And you ain't?”

“I got more on my mind than that, man. I'm gonna
go
in this life. Go!” Millard socks the air with his fist and chuckles.

Rowan giggles, pulling his old battered hat down over his eyes. “Hear dat, Pit? Nothin' but nothin' faze this boy,
he
say.”

“Yeah, Jack. He most non-cha-lunt for a nigger.”

“I bet he scared to do anything,” Rowan says. “Bet he scared like a chicken.”

“You crazy?” Millard gives a debonair chortle. “I never chickened in my life. Beat up spics twice my size.”

“He not scared of nothin',” Claus put in. “He flew all de way here in an air-o-plane.”

“Hey!” Jack Rowan comes to a halt in the road. “Lookit down in front of your house, Clausy. Dere's dat Linoleum Hill quail sittin' dere proud as
you
please in dat car. All by herself, hah?”

“Dat's Miz Hooper,” Claus says.