Sweet Song (26 page)

When the flood hit and the lumber rumbled into the boom, Jasper told Bob that that was the first year in the life of the bakery that he was ready for the rush. “Men eat more when they’re working.”

Bob made most of the daily deliveries for the baker, loading the baked goods into a small mule-driven cart, and leading the animal through town. He kept his promise of working hard, retrieving one bucket of river water each day, and being in a good mood. He sang much of the time he worked.

The town lived for lumber. Noise and excitement bombarded the streets. Stores became busy. Restaurants, hotels, boarding houses, and theatres were frequented. Mornings came early and evenings never ended.

Although Bob disliked the boarding house where he slept, there were few places in town to stay as cheaply. He had a bed and was happy for that.

In July, Jasper’s hothouse became unbearable. Even Jasper stood at the doorway that opened to the counter, obviously avoiding the heat as often as he could manage. Bob stepped to the back entrance praying for a breeze to curl down the alley or through the shop, although shop breezes were also hot.

At the height of the heat wave, it seemed as though no one in town could sleep and the saloon collected the men like snakes in a bag all curled together. Bob learned to step into the saloon with familiarity, like his own house, even though there were never any Negroes inside except him. It wasn’t that they weren’t allowed, only that they didn’t frequent the place. Bob imagined himself wearing a mask. He was an actor with pale makeup. On other occasions he didn’t know whether he acted or had become someone else altogether, someone different than who he started out to be.

He slept very few hours. He didn’t talk much because he worked long hours, ate, and slept or walked the streets in the coolest part of the night. He and Jasper talked business. How many loaves sold? How many muffins? What did Bob think they’d need the next day?

Then one night while Jasper and Bob cleaned up, a melodic sound rang through the alley like a dream. Bob turned an ear to it. Two men sang in mid-tones as they walked down the alley.

“Pretty sound,” Jasper said. He stood behind Bob who had stopped to listen.

“It is,” Bob said.

“Not as pretty as your singin’,” Jasper said as a matter of fact.

As the men got closer to Bob and Jasper, they stopped singing. One of the Negroes stood as tall as the doorway and looked rather skeletal, the other stood broader, heavier, and a foot shorter. They carried instruments. The tall one held a guitar by its neck. The short man carried a banjo over his shoulder.

The short one smiled at Bob and Jasper. “Hey dare,” he said.

“Hello,” Jasper said.

“We told there a alley shed we can stay in. Dis the alley?”

Jasper stepped in front of Bob. “Down there.” He indicated a structure that appeared to have been added to the back of one of the buildings. It leaned into the alley and was held to the side of the main building by nothing more than a pair of two-by-eight studs tacked between the two structures.

“I thought that was a storage shed,” Bob said.

“McGregor rents it out. A favor to his uncle Jimmy Finch.”

“The man who owns the saloon?”

“That’s the one.” Jasper watched as the Negroes walked by. “Not much room in there.”

“We be fine,” the short man said.

“Let’s finish up,” Jasper said. When he and Bob were back inside, Jasper nodded his head toward the door. “Don’t worry about them. They’ll be gone by the end of summer.”

“Why would I worry?”

“Havin’ niggers in the alley,” Jasper said as though that were reason enough.

Bob shrugged. After cleaning up and locking the doors, Jasper and Bob went out the front. Bob never knew and never wondered where Jasper lived, only that the man always went the opposite direction on the street. Bob looked over his shoulder to see whether Jasper looked back. He dodged down the alley. He stepped as quietly as he could. He could hear the Negroes rustling around in the shed, settling themselves. At the back entrance to the bakery, Bob sat on the stoop.

In a few minutes, he heard the men talking in low, undecipherable tones. Then the sound of strumming came. And then some banjo picking. In a moment the men were singing. Bob listened first to Civil War songs such as “When Johnny comes Marching Home,” then gospel, then tunes he couldn’t place. Eventually, the men were laughing and just playing their instruments, no singing at all. The sound relaxed Bob. His mind wandered back to a time when his innocence had not been compromised. Even as the Civil War raged in other parts of Pennsylvania, little Leon knew only six shacks and the landowner’s house and barn. Fred Carpenter, as Bob learned, had moved from Virginia long before the war. What he
considered himself in relation to the war never entered Bob’s thoughts, and only a slight curiosity nagged at him now.

He dozed off. When he awoke all was quiet. The Negroes had stopped playing and the shed door was closed. Groggy and sore, Bob rose with caution, letting his neck and knees crack and readjust to movement. He walked to the roominghouse and slipped into his bedroll careful not to disturb anyone.

Early the next morning, he exited as quietly as he’d arrived. In after dark and out before light. He pulled a bucket of water from the river and delivered it to the bakery. Jasper had already begun work, mixing vats of flour and walnuts for a walnut loaf. He also had a batch of butternuts, a special treat.

Bob pitched in by first straining the river water and portioning out a cup to each of the other buckets. Then two-at-a-time, Bob carried the buckets to the end of the alley and filled them. He hummed as he walked. On his third trip, the short Negro sat on a turned-over bucket outside the shed. He smoked a cigarette. “Hey dare,” he said. “I know dat tune.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Bob said. The light of day glowed over the mountain, but the sun wasn’t quite up yet.

“Cain’t wake me. I sleep through cannon fire. Sleep so deep I forget my own name when I wake up.” He sat straight and turned his head to look up and down the alley. “Who am I,” he said while twisting his big head. Then he laughed.

Bob laughed with him.

“Dat’s why I don’t know dat tune. What is it?”

“I don’t know either. My aunt used to hum it. She sang it sometimes too, but I can’t remember the words.”

“Pone,” the big man called. “Pone, what dis song?” He began to hum.

The thin man stepped from the shed. It was magical that they could both fit inside. He cocked his head, then picked up the humming. “Woodman, Spare dat Tree.”

“Damn. Dat’s it.”

They both began to sing. Their voices merged as one melodic voice.

Bob recalled the words once they started. He nodded his head.

Pone waved his hand for Bob to join in, which he did, adding another harmonic to the already smooth sound. Singing with the two of them freed Bob of any lingering embarrassment he may have had. He belted the song out.

Jasper yelled from inside the hothouse. “Ain’t payin’ for singin’.”

Bob quieted and picked up his buckets to deliver them. Once the lyrics played in his head, they came back easily. He sang on his way to make deliveries.

He ran into Hugh from time to time, and on this day they met up on Arch Street heading toward the river.

“Bob,” Hugh said.

Bob still struggled slightly with his name, so it took a moment for him to turn around. “How are you? You liking the mill work?”

Hugh raised a bandaged hand.

“What happened?”

“Got slammed. Down to half pay, for half a man. Working in the sawmill though. I can stand my own ground even with one hand.” He raised his right hand, the arm strong, the fingers and palm thick with callus and muscle.

“I’m sure of that,” Bob said.

“And you, deliverin’. I seen you a lot. Called out once, but you never heard. Like now, I’m thinkin’ you’re hard of hearing.” He glanced at the muffins. “Headin’ to the mill?”

“First, then to a few places in town. They make the stew, Jasper makes the bread.”

“Any day-olds?”

“Nope. All fresh.”

“Look, I’m good for it. You can trust your old friend, even if we ended on a bad word.”

Bob hesitated.

“You stayin’ the same place?” Hugh said. “I’ll come by with the money tonight. I been thinking about what I said.”

“You know where the bakery is?” Bob said.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there tonight.”

Hugh smiled, green and glowing. “I’ll be there.”

Bob handed Hugh a muffin.

“Two?”

“Tonight, or it comes from my wages.”

“Don’t you ever drop any by accident? I don’t mind the dirt.”

“No,” Bob said. “And I don’t plan to.”

“Thank you for these. Tonight. You’ll see me.”

Bob nodded.

As soon as Hugh had his muffins, he hurried off to work. Bob put in a full day, rushing some jobs. He was eager to talk with Pone and his friend that evening, but by the time the bakery closed, the men were gone.

Later that evening, Hugh arrived. Bob leaned against the porch post.

Hugh’s slow movements belied his fatigue. “I didn’t forget.” Hugh stood in the street staring up at Bob, the last light of day being replaced by moonlight.

“What is it?”

“Nothin’. Been hearin’ things is all.”

“What things might that be?” Bob stepped easily from the porch into the dirt and mud of the street.

“Nothin’.” Hugh held out his hand to place coins into Bob’s palm.

“Thank you.”

“Want to go for a drink? Tavern’s just down the street.”

“Sure,” Bob said. He dropped the money into his pocket and strolled with Hugh.

“You like sellin’ bread?” Hugh asked.

“It’s better than logging. Better than cutting lumber at the mill. For me, that is. I had my fill of lumber long ago.”

Hugh held up his damaged hand in the fading light. A lot of people were on the street. A few glanced at Hugh’s sudden motion. “I’m beginin’ to know what you mean. I have to work longer and harder to make up for this. I keep thinkin’ what if it never heals? What if I’m crippled my whole life like them soldiers that come back with missin’ parts. I think I can lie and say it was a war wound, and get a pity job. But I don’t want no pity job. I want my hand back.”

“We all have our wounds.”

“Do tell, Bob. What’s your wound? I know about your pappy. What else you wounded for?”

“Here’s the place. Shall we?” From outside, the din of conversation stood against a background of piano music. Bob motioned for Hugh to enter the saloon first, then followed him. Suddenly, the piano demanded attention, and the din receded into the background. Individual conversations came and went as Bob and Hugh walked through the tavern to find an open seat at the bar.

“Two beers,” Hugh said.

Bob seldom drank beer. He drank wine once during a jump-the-broom ceremony when he was thirteen.

Hugh grabbed his mug and took a long drink. He smiled broadly.

Bob had never seen him so happy.

Hugh nodded and Bob drank from his mug. The beer tasted salty and bitter, but Bob didn’t let on. He glanced around the room, an uncomfortable feeling coming over him with that many people in one place. There wasn’t a Negro to be found. Bob wondered where they met, where they drank beer and laughed?

The piano player banged out tunes that Bob had never heard, then came upon one Bob did recognize. He hummed along with the tune.

Hugh knew some of the other men and they laughed together. Bob didn’t listen much to what they said; the conversations all appeared to have started at the mill.

After a while, Hugh’s friends and Hugh turned to Bob. He leaned close and Bob could smell Hugh’s breath of beer and tooth rot. “Sorry about what I said before.”

“What did you say?” Bob wondered whether he should have listened to the conversation more closely.

“Not just now. Long before. About you lovin’ Negroes.”

“Negroes? Don’t know if I remember that.”

“I’m sure you do. And I’m sorry.”

“It’s done,” Bob said.

“You accept my apology?”

“I do.”

“They got some good singers here. They’re Negroes. You’ll like ‘em.”

“Maybe I will.” Half of Bob’s beer rested inside his mug and already his head felt foggy.

Hugh ordered two more beers, pushing his empty mug toward the bartender. He motioned for Bob to finish his. Two more were set on the bar. Hugh winked at Bob, “You get this one.”

Bob paid and took his first sip. The bartender had whisked the other mug from the bar.

Hugh pointed to the back of the tavern where Pone and his short friend strolled onto a small, makeshift stage. When Pone started playing his guitar, the room quieted down.

Bob recognized Jimmy Finch as he walked onto the short platform. He could hear the planks creek.

“A special treat tonight,” Jimmy yelled. All this week and next, we got Pone and Shorty. You won’t be sorry you come. And, hey, tell yer friends, cause they only got so many performances before they movin’ on.”