The Complete Fiction of Nella Larsen: Passing, Quicksand, and the Stories (4 page)

Well rid of her! How well he had not known, nor how easily. She was dead. And he had cursed her. But one didn’t curse the dead…. Didn’t one? Damn her! Why couldn’t she have lived, or why hadn’t she died sooner? For long months he had wondered how she had arranged her life, and all the while she had done nothing but to complete it by dying.

The futility of all his speculations exasperated him. His old resentment returned. She
had
spoiled his life; first by living and then by dying. He hated the fact that she had finished with him, rather than he with her. He could not forgive her…. Forgive her? She was dead. He felt somehow that, after all, the dead did not care if you forgave them or not.

Gradually, his mind became puppet to a disturbing tension which drove it back and forth between two thoughts: he had left her; she was dead. These two facts became lodged in his mind like burrs pricking at his breaking faculties. As he recalled the manner of his leaving her, it seemed increasingly brutal. She had died loving him, bearing him a child, and he had left her. He tried to shake off the heavy mental dejection which weighed him down, but his former will and determination deserted him. The vitality of the past, forever dragging him down into black depression, frightened him. The mental fog, thick as soot, into which the news of her death had trapped him,
appalled him. He must get himself out. A wild anger seized him. He began to think of his own death, self-inflicted, with feeling that defied analysis. His zest for life became swallowed up in the rising tide of sorrow and mental chaos which was engulfing him.

As autumn approached, with faint notice on his part, his anger and resentment retreated, leaving in their wake a gentle stir of regret and remorse. Imperceptibly, he grew physically weary; a strange sensation of loneliness and isolation enveloped him. A species of timidity came upon him; he felt an unhappy remoteness from people, and began to edge away from life.

His deepening sense of isolation drove him more and more back upon his memories. Sunk in his armchair before the fire, he passed the days and sometimes the nights, for he had lost count of these, merged as they were into one another.

His increasing mental haziness had rejected the fact of her death; often she was there with him, just beyond the firelight or the candlelight. She talked and laughed with him. Sometimes, at night, he woke to see her standing over him or sitting in his chair before the dying fire. By some mysterious process, the glory of first love flamed again in him. He forgot that they had ever parted. His twisted memories visioned her with him in places where she had never been. He had forgotten all but the past, and that was brightly distorted.

He sat waiting for her. He seemed to remember that she had promised to come. Outside, the street was quiet. She was late. Why didn’t she come? Childish tears fell over his cold cheeks. He sat weeping in front of the sinking fire.

A nameless dread seized him; she would not come! In the agony of his disappointment, he did not see that the fire had died and the candles had sputtered out. He sat wrapped in immeasurable sadness. He knew that she would not come.

Something in this thought fired his disintegrating brain. She would not come; then he must go to her.

He rose, shaking with cold, and groped toward the door. Yes, he would go to her.

The gleam of a streetlight through a French window caught his attention. He stumbled toward it. His cold fingers fumbled a moment with the catch, but he tore it open with a spark of his old determination and power, and stepped out—and down to the pavement a hundred feet below.

On the Southern coast, between Merton and Shawboro, there is a strip of desolation some half a mile wide and nearly ten miles long between the sea and old fields of ruined plantations. Skirting the edge of this narrow jungle is a partly grown-over road which still shows traces of furrows made by the wheels of wagons that have long since rotted away or been cut into firewood. This road is little used, now that the state has built its new highway a bit to the west and wagons are less numerous than automobiles.

In the forsaken road a man was walking swiftly. But in spite of his hurry, at every step he set down his feet with infinite care,
for the night was windless and the heavy silence intensified each sound; even the breaking of a twig could be plainly heard. And the man had need of caution as well as haste.

Before a lonely cottage that shrank timidly back from the road the man hesitated a moment, then struck out across the patch of green in front of it. Stepping behind a clump of bushes close to the house, he looked in through the lighted window at Annie Poole, standing at her kitchen table mixing the supper biscuits.

He was a big, black man with pale brown eyes in which there was an odd mixture of fear and amazement. The light showed streaks of gray soil on his heavy, sweating face and great hands, and on his torn clothes. In his woolly hair clung bits of dried leaves and dead grass.

He made a gesture as if to tap on the window, but turned away to the door instead. Without knocking he opened it and went in.

The woman’s brown gaze was immediately on him, though she did not move. She said, “You ain’t in no hurry, is you, Jim Hammer?” It wasn’t, however, entirely a question.

“Ah’s in trubble, Mis’ Poole,” the man explained, his voice shaking, his fingers twitching.

“W’at you done done now?”

“Shot a man, Mis’ Poole.”

“Trufe?” The woman seemed calm. But the word was spat out.

“Yas’m. Shot ’im.” In the man’s tone was something of wonder, as if he himself could not quite believe that he had really done this thing which he affirmed.

“Daid?”

“Dunno, Mis’ Poole. Dunno.”

“White man o’ niggah?”

“Cain’t say, Mis’ Poole. White man, Ah reckons.”

Annie Poole looked at him with cold contempt. She was a tiny,
withered woman—fifty perhaps—with a wrinkled face the color of old copper, framed by a crinkly mass of white hair. But about her small figure was some quality of hardness that belied her appearance of frailty. At last she spoke, boring her sharp little eyes into those of the anxious creature before her.

“An’ w’at am you lookin’ foh me to do ’bout et?”

“Jes’ lemme stop till dey’s gone by. Hide me till dey passes. Reckon dey ain’t fur off now.” His begging voice changed to a frightened whimper. “Foh de Lawd’s sake, Mis’ Poole, lemme stop.”

And why, the woman inquired caustically, should she run the dangerous risk of hiding him?

“Obadiah, he’d lemme stop ef he was to home,” the man whined.

Annie Poole sighed. “Yas,” she admitted slowly, reluctantly, “Ah spec’ he would. Obadiah, he’s too good to youall no ’count trash.” Her slight shoulders lifted in a hopeless shrug. “Yas, Ah reckon he’d do et. Emspecial’ seein’ how he alius set such a heap o’ store by you. Cain’t see w’at foh, mahse’f. Ah shuah don’ see nuffin’ in you but a heap o’dirt.”

But a look of irony, of cunning, of complicity passed over her face. She went on, “Still, ’siderin’ all an’ all, how Obadiah’s right fon’ o’ you, an’ how white folks is white folks, Ah’m a-gwine hide you dis one time.”

Crossing the kitchen, she opened a door leading into a small bed-room, saying, “Git yo’se’f in dat dere feather baid an’ Ah’m a-gwine put de clo’s on de top. Don’ reckon dey’ll fin’ you ef dey does look foh you in mah house. An Ah don’ spec’ dey’ll go foh to do dat. Not lessen you been keerless an’ let ’em smell you out gittin’ hyah.” She turned on him a withering look. “But you alius been triflin’. Cain’t do nuffin’ propah. An’ Ah’m a-tellin’ you ef dey warn’t white folks an’ you a po’ niggah, Ah shuah wouldn’t be lettin’ you mess up mah feather baid dis ebenin’, ’cose Ah jes’ plain don’ want you hyah. Ah done kep’ mahse’f outen trubble all mah life. So’s Obadiah.”

“Ah’s powahful ’bliged to you, Mis’ Poole. You shuah am one good ’oman. De Lawd’ll mos’ suttinly—”

Annie Poole cut him off. “Dis ain’t no time foh all dat kin’ o’
fiddle-de-roll. Ah does mah duty as Ah sees et ’thout no thanks from you. Ef de Lawd had gib you a white face ’stead o’ dat dere black one, Ah shuah would turn you out. Now hush yo’ mouf an’ git yo’se’f in. An’ don’ git movin’ and scrunchin’ undah dose covahs and git yo’se’f kotched in mah house.”

Without further comment the man did as he was told. After he had laid his soiled body and grimy garments between her snowy sheets, Annie Poole carefully rearranged the covering and placed piles of freshly laundered linen on top. Then she gave a pat here and there, eyed the result, and, finding it satisfactory, went back to her cooking.

Jim Hammer settled down to the racking business of waiting until the approaching danger should have passed him by. Soon savory odors seeped in to him and he realized that he was hungry. He wished that Annie Poole would bring him something to eat. Just one biscuit. But she wouldn’t, he knew. Not she. She was a hard one, Obadiah’s mother.

By and by he fell into a sleep from which he was dragged back by the rumbling sound of wheels in the road outside. For a second fear clutched so tightly at him that he almost leaped from the suffocating shelter of the bed in order to make some active attempt to escape the horror that his capture meant. There was a spasm at his heart, a pain so sharp, so slashing, that he had to suppress an impulse to cry out. He felt himself falling. Down, down, down … Everything grew dim and very distant in his memory…. Vanished … Came rushing back.

Outside there was silence. He strained his ears. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. They had gone on then. Gone without even stopping to ask Annie Poole if she had seen him pass that way. A sigh of relief slipped from him. His thick lips curled in an ugly, cunning smile. It had been smart of him to think of coming to Obadiah’s mother’s to hide. She was an old demon, but he was safe in her house.

He lay a short while longer, listening intently, and, hearing nothing, started to get up. But immediately he stopped, his yellow eyes glowing like pale flames. He had heard the unmistakable sound of men coming toward the house. Swiftly he slid back into the heavy, hot stuffiness of the bed and lay listening fearfully.

The terrifying sounds drew nearer. Slowly. Heavily. Just for a moment he thought they were not coming in—they took so long. But there was a light knock and the noise of a door being opened. His whole body went taut. His feet felt frozen, his hands clammy, his tongue like a weighted, dying thing. His pounding heart made it hard for his straining ears to hear what they were saying out there.

“Ebenin’, Mistah Lowndes.” Annie Poole’s voice sounded as it always did, sharp and dry.

There was no answer. Or had he missed it? With slow care he shifted his position, bringing his head nearer the edge of the bed. Still he heard nothing. What were they waiting for? Why didn’t they ask about him?

Annie Poole, it seemed, was of the same mind. “Ah don’ reckon youall done traipsed way out hyah jes’ foh yo’ healf,” she hinted.

“There’s bad news for you, Annie, I’m ’fraid.” The sheriff’s voice was low and queer.

Jim Hammer visualized him standing out there—a tall, stooped man, his white tobacco-stained mustache drooping limply at the ends, his nose hooked and sharp, his eyes blue and cold. Bill Lowndes was a hard one too. And white.

“W’atall bad news, Mistah Lowndes?” The woman put the question quietly, directly.

“Obadiah—” the sheriff began—hesitated—began again. “Obadiah—ah—er—he’s outside, Annie. I’m ’fraid—”

“Shucks! You done missed. Obadiah, he ain’t done nuffin’, Mistah Lowndes. Obadiah!” she called stridently, “Obadiah! git hyah an’ splain yo’se’f.”

But Obadiah didn’t answer, didn’t come in. Other men came in. Came in with steps that dragged and halted. No one spoke. Not even Annie Poole. Something was laid carefully upon the floor.

“Obadiah, chile,” his mother said softly, “Obadiah, chile.” Then,
with sudden alarm, “He ain’t daid, is he? Mistah Lowndes! Obadiah, he ain’t daid?”

Jim Hammer didn’t catch the answer to that pleading question. A new fear was stealing over him.

“There was a to-do, Annie,” Bill Lowndes explained gently, “at the garage back o’ the factory. Fellow tryin’ to steal tires. Obadiah heerd a noise an’ run out with two or three others. Scared the rascal all right. Fired off his gun an’ run. We allow et to be Jim Hammer. Picked up his cap back there. Never was no ’count. Thievin’ an’ sly. But we’ll git ’im, Annie. We’ll git ’im.”

The man huddled in the feather bed prayed silently. “Oh, Lawd! Ah didn’t go to do et. Not Obadiah, Lawd. You knows dat. You knows et.” And into his frenzied brain came the thought that it would be better for him to get up and go out to them before Annie Poole gave him away. For he was lost now. With all his great strength he tried to get himself out of the bed. But he couldn’t.

“Oh, Lawd!” he moaned. “Oh, Lawd!” His thoughts were bitter and they ran through his mind like panic. He knew that it had come to pass as it said somewhere in the Bible about the wicked. The Lord had stretched out his hand and smitten him. He was paralyzed. He couldn’t move hand or foot. He moaned again. It was all there was left for him to do. For in the terror of this new calamity that had come upon him he had forgotten the waiting danger which was so near out there in the kitchen.