Sweet Song (31 page)

He stopped in front of Henry Kemp’s house and turned toward the door. He knocked. Liza answered. She was a smiling and delightful black woman of age, chubby in the cheeks and in the arms, but with an average body on the rest of her.

“Why Bob, where you bread? An’ ain’t it early?”

“I got hurt and Jasper hired another helper. I’m all healed now and was wondering if Mr. and Mrs. Kemp needed any help. A stableman? A fetcher?”

“I done know fer sure. I get ‘im to tell me when he git home. Where you stayin’.”

“A house up on Green Street. Six-one-two.”

“Six-one-two Green. I think I can fine that. You know I lives right pass dare in wit a shack row.” She laughed. “I ain’t surprised if’n you all can hear us chantin’ and singin’ on Sunday.”

“I just moved in.”

“Due tell. Well, I done think there nothin’, but I be sure to let you know.”

“Thank you Liza,” Bob nodded his head and walked down to Jed Howard’s mansion.

Surprisingly, Jed’s wife, Elizabeth, opened the door. Bob had talked with her only once before. She was a skinny slip of a woman with a sharp jaw line and boney elbows. Her voice often sounded as if it slid along her teeth and leaped out of her mouth with the force of her breath behind it, often cutting off the first letter of the first word she said. “’Es, ‘An I help you?” Once she got started, she didn’t force the words out so hard and they came easier and without as much snipping.

Bob stepped back, having expected May-Lou to answer the door.

Elizabeth appeared to recognize the surprise in his face because she then said, “’ay-Lou an’ her family’s all sick. I tell ‘er and Emmil to stay home till they fine.”

Bob stood there to register what she’d said and to contemplate what he wished to do about it.

“You da bread man.”

“I am.”

“’Ere’s your bread?”

“I’m not the bread man any longer. Now, I’m looking for work.”

Elizabeth looked into the sky as though Bob wasn’t even standing there. “Oh, thank you Lord,” she said. She sounded as though she meant it. Her voice so soft and so sincere that Bob wanted to reach out and hold her.

“’Ere’s a lot a work.” She stepped from the door allowing space for Bob to walk in. She moved quickly, closing the door behind him, then slipping past him on the side closest to the wall, where there was hardly enough room for a broom handle. Before he knew it she charged in front of him leading him deeper into the house. He hadn’t even felt a breeze as she stepped by him.

He didn’t have time to think. He never heard what his wages would be. Elizabeth hadn’t even said yes to him about the work, nor did she say what he’d be doing. He just followed behind her, through the foyer, past a large reading room on the left, past what appeared to be a living room on the right, then the kitchen on the right, and a closed door on the left. She headed straight out to the back of the house, turned left and there, in front of her, was a carriage bent down as if on one knee. The wheel lay in the grass. The axle pushed into the dirt. And the diagonal wheel lifted into the air, held up by the weight of the shift and tilt of the carriage itself.

“I can fix that,” Bob said.

“You got a woman?”

“No, ma’am.”

“’An you find one?”

“Maybe.”

“’E needs a cook, now, too.”

“I’ll check and see who might be interested.”

Elizabeth pursed her lips and stared into Bob’s face. She made a smacking sound and walked off without a word.

B
ob inspected the carriage. There was no telling how long it had been sitting in the same, unused position. The axle looked fine. He pulled down on the opposite wheel from the missing one and the carriage weight shifted. He easily got the wheel to touch the ground, but the end of the axle just slid back a few inches. It didn’t lift. The carriage weight would be off the axle though. When he let go of the wheel, the carriage shifted back, but not completely. Both the back wheel and the axle touched ground now.

He stepped to the wheel lying in the grass, reached down and lifted it, pulling grass along too. It had been there long enough for the grass to have grown around it. He had to force the wheel against the long, slow grasping and tearing of the lawn.

On one knee, next to the wheel, Bob noticed that it had a split hub. No one had greased the wheel for a long time, which had been much of the problem, he surmised. Bob rolled the wheel next to the carriage and leaned it against the boot-board.

He glanced around the property and found plenty of rocks and wood, and dragged them into place so that he could prop the front axle up and off the ground.

Next, he inspected the other wheels. Two could be salvaged with a little sanding and some grease. One other wheel wouldn’t make it to the edge of town and back. Bob knocked at the back door of the house.

Mrs. Howard answered. She looked calmer than when he’d arrived. A white fringed apron hung from her waist and she had taken the time to pin her hair up. “’Es?”

“The carriage will need a little work. One hub’s broken and another can’t be repaired.” Bob looked around inside the house more as an indication that he’d been searching and not as though he were nosey. “Can’t find any grease anywhere either.”

Mrs. Howard opened the door a bit farther so that Bob could peer inside. “Anything here?”

“Don’t see any.” He stopped for a moment thinking that she might instruct him. “I’m not sure what it will cost,” he said.

“Don’t care.”

“Would you like me to go ahead and fix it?”

“’E got a tab wit the stable. Tell ‘em it’s for the Howard’s.”

“Could you write a short note?”

She stood and stared at him.

Eventually Bob nodded. “I could write it for you.”

She stepped away, went into the kitchen, and came back with paper and a stubby pencil. Handing it to Bob, she said, “Thank you,” in such a whisper he hardly heard her.

“What would you like me to write?”

She looked to the ground.

“I’ll just put down that you’d like two wheels and a bucket of grease put on your tab. I’ll let you know how much that costs when I get back.”

“No need,” she said. “I truss ya.”

Bob smiled as broadly as he could. He didn’t know whether to feel good about himself or pity Elizabeth Howard. A trapped child stared out of her face. He hadn’t realized it ever before, but that must be what it felt like to be a slave – as an adult. It didn’t look good.

Before he could turn to go, she put her hand out and touched his arm. “’F you can write, why you wanna work like this?”

That was a good question. He pursed his lips, nodded politely, and stepped away letting her hand drop.

On his walk to the stable, he let her question roll around in his head. His bruises hurt more as he stood upright to walk than when he rolled and lifted the rocks and logs into place. Walking made his side muscles ripple with every step, shooting occasional pain clear through to his flesh. So he slowed, he sauntered down toward the stable as though he were on a Sunday stroll.

The street wasn’t very busy and he hummed, not loudly, but the sound did resonate more than a whisper, right at that break between breath force and lung force.

By the time he made it to the stable, he wondered why he labored all morning too. And over a carriage that the Howard’s obviously didn’t care for properly. That’s probably why they didn’t want the stable to send someone to fix it, to escape the embarrassment of neglect. Indeed, why had he continually labored when he had also been able to out-think many of the men and women he’d met or worked with?

The blacksmith at the stable questioned his note. The man must have known the Howard’s well because he instantly read the note and asked, “Did Mrs. Howard write this down for you.”

“No sir,” Bob said. “She can’t write.”

He put down his hammer and dropped a piece of metal into a water bucket. A fizz and sizzle rose with steam. He placed the tongs across his anvil next to the hammer. He stretched to his full height. A long torso, short stocky legs, and barrel chest gave him the stature of a rock. He shook hands with Bob. “Name’s Willy, but everybody calls me Fist.”

“Fist?”

“Been known to box.” He laughed with a boom that caught Bob off guard.

Fist grabbed Bob’s shoulder when he saw that he’d surprised him. The grip hurt, but Bob didn’t cringe. Fist said, “That’s when I was a kid. Now I beat the hell out of horse shoes and carriage iron. Made cannon parts in Philadelphia. Kept me busy during the war.” He held up his hands. “That’s why I’m all here,” he said. “What about you?”

“I was farming.”

“You was lucky.”

“I’m starting to feel lucky,” Bob said.

“So, two wheels and grease, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Only niggers call me sir,” Fist said.

Bob quieted, answering questions but not participating in the conversation, which he knew Fist wanted him to do. The little
pleasure he got from Fist’s frustration with the conversation ebbed when Fist slapped a black man who worked for him. “Dumb son-of-a-bitch,” he said when the man delivered the wrong wheel.

Bob thanked Fist anyway, biting his lip before doing so. Then he rolled the wheels out of the stable and down the street. The grease bucket handle slipped over his arm rested in the crook of his elbow and swung as he maneuvered the wheels down the street.

Bob had never seen Fist at Jimmy Finch’s and figured it was because of how the man obviously felt about Negroes. As Hugh had said, some in town avoided the bar.

The going was slow. If Bob moved too quickly, the grease bucket slammed into his hip. He had enough bruises. He moved slowly as he returned to the Howard’s.

Once again he sang while rolling those wheels. “Don’t know why I’m walking/ down this lonesome road,/ just sure I can’t stop talking,/ nor let go this heavy load./ People say I’m crazy/ for working like I do,/ but I say I’m not lazy/ missing life like some men do.”

“Ex-cuse ma sir. Ex-cuse.”

Bob heard a woman’s voice from behind him and then heard feet shuffling his way. With some effort, he stopped the steady roll of the wheels. One almost fell over and, when he reached for it, the grease bucket slapped the other wheel almost knocking it out of his hand and into the dirt. By the time he felt balanced enough to turn around, the woman stepped beside him, then in front of him while two other women stepped to either side. The woman to his left reminded him of Martha and although he didn’t wish it, his mind freed the woman’s breasts and let them hang in the hot summer air, the nipples smooth against the flesh. He shook his head and looked at the others one at a time. “What can I do for you ladies?”

“Ladies? Well, my goodness,” the one in front of him said. “We the Sistas of Rythmn.”

“Except you aren’t sisters,” Bob said. Their noses, although wide, were not the same. And the way their eyes opened a space in their skulls were hollowed out on two of the women, but ran shallow on the other. Even the cheeks and ears weren’t enough alike.
Not that they had to look the same, but typically there were similarities. These women had none.

She turned her head to the side, looking at him through a tighter lense. “An’ you ain’t you normal white man. Most cain’t tell one Negro from another. We got to wear shirts so’s they can tell men from women.” She laughed.

A shot of blood ran through Bob. “I was raised by Negroes most of my life. Doesn’t Jimmy Finch recognize you?”

The woman kept her head cocked. “I reckon on one level. You part of da railroad?”

“No.”

“Come on Mary,” the woman with Martha’s build said.

“We heard ya,” Mary said.

“Heard what?”

“Singin’. You make up them song words?”

Bob lowered his head. “Yes, but they come and go, just like everything.”

“I’m Mary. This here is Joesy. An’ here is Bet. How would you like it if we sang you song? We cain’t pay nothin’ an’ we got little to trade.”

“Sing what?”

“You song ‘bout walkin’ down dis lonesome road.”

“You heard me?”

“Hell,” Joesy said, “she hear what people sayin’ clear ‘cross town. You grow up in da South you hear a mob coming before they thinkin’ about it.”

“An’ she remember the words, too,” Bet added.

Bob smiled broad and toothy. “Yes, ma’am. You can if you can remember what I said.”

“Johny write most a the new songs we got. We sing two or three a night juss to surprise the audience so’s they wake up. Then we do gospels –.”

“Mostly in church on Sunday,” Joesy said.

“An’ war songs.”

“Yankie only,” Joesy said.

“An’ even some Negro work songs.”

“Johny gettin’ tired is all. We like more if’n you can writ ‘em down.”

Bob looked from one woman to the next. His heart raced. The sun sparkled off the treetops. “I might be able to do that.”

The women looked at one another and laughed like they’d been tickled. Then they hiked their skirts off the road. Mary said, “Come by tonight?” And before Bob could acknowledge her, they all nodded and scurried off behind him.