A Cry of Angels (40 page)

Mr. Teague was silent. And moving in on that silence, Doc Bobo said, "In short, speaking bluntly, Mr. Teague, this is important not only to me, but to other people, in high political circles. Take that housing project; when the government appropriates money for black people, they like to see a black face or two on the committees. That's the look of the times, if you know what I mean. And that situation with the schools. Everybody wants that kept quiet, but the word is this thing is just getting started, and there's people who want reliable black folks in high places when they really start pushing, people who can be trusted. This granite association thing could be the perfect springboard to political appointments, where in the coming years I could be of invaluable service to our district. That's why it's so important that this opportunity not be allowed to pass."

"And of course," he said, "I would appeal to you on behalf of your good colored friends and customers around you, for what they stand to gain in the sale of their property, and the new jobs a quarry down here would provide. It's not often such a financial opportunity as this comes to the Ape Yard."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Teague, "I don't care if you put Bobo in a position to siphon off every federal dollar they pour in here, with government subsidies or whatever. You can make him president of the granite association. Run him for Congress! But you ain't going to do it by tearin' down my store."

"And don't you talk to me about opportunities for black folks, Bobo. I been feedin' the ones you're lettin' starve. Raise that mill above slave wages and then come talk to me." He shook his head. "I know about how you get folks to sell property, and I know, and they know, that once you and the granite people get done tradin' 'em around, you'll end up with whatever profits there is, and all they'll get is another hole in the ground to work in that freezes in the winter and hits a hundred and twenty degrees in the summer. So don't talk to me about opportunities for black folks, Doc. I don't see no opportunity in it for nobody but you . . . and you ain't been black for thirty years."

The three men looked at each other. The mayor turned and stalked angrily out of the store. After a moment, the others followed him.

Tio could barely suppress his jubilation until they were out of earshot. "Did you hear that old man?" he cried. "Did you hear what he laid on those guys!"

"
Tio-o-o
!"

"Gittin' 'em, Mr. Teague . . . gatherin' 'em right now!"

Nothing more was heard from the mayor or the granite association, but the very next day Doc Bobo began quietly buying the property around Mr. Teague. One by one the shacks were emptied, their occupants relocated in the cheap prefab little houses that began springing up along the south side of the hollow.

"Let him clean 'em all out," said Mr. Teague, "till I'm the only one left over here, just help to see the store better."

To the great relief of the boarders and myself, who had been on edge ever since we learned that our new landlord was Doc Bobo, Mr. J. J. Bearden came by the next day to tell us that for the time being at least, the boardinghouse property was in no danger. It was that area below Sunflower Street, including the Teague property, that was under primary consideration. Should the quarry operations expand to require more ground later on . . . well, we would take that as it came. That would be months, anyway, perhaps years.

"If he's countin' on Teague to sell," said Mr. Burroughs, "he better figure longer than that!"

"Well," said Mrs. Bell, "it was nice of him to send us word so soon anyway."

"He didn't want you to worry a minute," said Mr. Bearden, bowing his way off the porch.

"Hey, J. J.," Mr. Rampey called, "how come Bobo was so shy about lettin' us know he'd bought the place?''

Mr. Bearden came back to the steps. "Well, confidentially," he said, "he didn't quite know how you folks might feel renting from . . . ah, him. You know how it is."

"Yeah," said Mr. Rampey.

"He's asked me to make every effort to see that you feel—comfortable here."

"We'd feel a lot more comfortable if he hadn't upped the rent," said Mr. Jurgen.

Mr. Bearden turned toward his car and stopped, remembering something. "Oh, yes"—he was looking at Ruby Lampham—"I don't quite understand . . ."

"About our extra cook?" said Mr. Burroughs. "Don't worry, J. J., she won't cost you a cent."

"Oh, well . . ."

"Slave labor, tell Bobo. He'll like that."

"Yes, well . . . whatever." Mr. Bearden worked the door open and climbed in his car. "If you need anything now, just call . . ." He was backing out the drive.

"We're still gonna dock him when we eat out!" Mr. Jurgen yelled.

It was true, Doc Bobo had always walked very gingerly around white people. I remember the time Miss Esther had Em destroy Bobo's shack across the road where the Kitchens woman lived and he'd never said a word. And he obviously knew that I was back and living in the garage with Em, and yet a word had never been said.

Remembering suddenly that we would continue to have that place in the woods to live, I rushed uptown to break the good news to Em.

Em was more interested in his game of pool.

He took his time, carefully lining up his shot, slowly stroking the cue through his fingers. He shot, and scratched.

The stranger across the table laughed. "That's the one, big feller, you just set my supper on the stove." The stranger, a stringy country fellow in white shirt, khaki pants and a cowboy hat, leaned across the table and easily sank the shot. Em got another beer and stood by swigging and scowling as the other man continued to sink balls as though he knew secret ridges in the table.

"There you are, I've been looking for you two everywhere." It was Jayell, sweaty and grimy, his denim jacket covered with rock dust. "Em, I'm building a retaining wall around the yard. You and Earl want to help me haul some rock?"

Em smiled. "The missus got you buildin' her a wall now, has she?" The sarcasm didn't go unnoticed, but Jayell brushed it off. "Up there you got to have one, or the whole damned yard washes away. What do you say?"

"I don't know," said Em, scratching his head, "little woman told me not to come about the place anymore."

"Well, you won't . . . we'll be out at the . . . look, damnit, I don't need your mouth, I need your back. You don't want the work, say so!"

Em patiently chalked his cue, studying the game. "Sure, we want the work, Jayell, just let me finish up here."

The door opened and Walt Moody came in, vacant grin fixed, oblivious to the heat. He touched Em's elbow. "You like fried chicken?" Em nodded, intent on the game. "Ain't the gravy good?" Walt Moody paused, expectant, but when he got no further response he moved on to the next man and repeated the questions. A player sliding his cue waited until Walt was out of the way. He continued around the room, repeating his questions to everyone, then went out the door.

Walt Moody never said anything else. His two eternal questions got him a free meal at the drugstore, an occasional beer, a bed for the night at the police station. Some years back someone noticed that Walt greeted women more often than he did men, and they sent him off for an operation. After that the town rested easier, and high school girls stopped to chat with Walt on the street. He had a permanent seat on the cheerleaders' bench at ball games. I could hear him out on the street now, stopping the giggling Pierce sisters.

"What's the matter with him?" asked the stranger across the table.

"Nothing," said Em, "he's just ahead of his time," and laid a quarter against the stranger's try for the side pocket.

The stranger sank the shot.

"Well, that does it," I said. "That cleans us out."

"Ain't no way to beat him," said Em. "You know why, Early boy? 'Cause that country boy is a pool hustler. Yessir, one of your regular circuit-ridin', shuck-the-local-folks pool hustlers. Ain't that right, country boy? Got your Cadillac parked across town?"

The lanky stranger grinned and racked his cue. "If you can't afford the game, don't play it."

"Oh, I can afford the game," Em said, "if I know who I'm up against. Kind of nettles me, though, to be led in blind."

"You pay as you go in this world, friend." The stranger pushed back his hat and stuck his hands in his pockets. "It just costs some more than others."

Suddenly Em's hand slapped down on the stranger's pocket, gripping the hand inside. "Don't move too quick now, country boy, or I'm gonna keep squeezin' until I hear some finger bones snap." The stranger relaxed, watching the Indian. Em smiled, and with a sudden jerk ripped away the pocket and half the man's trouser leg, and stood clutching his hand, which held a small caliber pistol. "I guessed it was a pistol you had in there," said Em proudly, "and it's a good thing I guessed correct, ain't it? 'Cause if I'd been wrong and you was just playin' with yourself, you'd be in
tar
-uble pain right now wouldn't you, country boy?"

The hustler blanched at the notion.

Em tossed the pistol aside and pressed the man down on the table. "You got a tossin' coin?" he asked me.

I shook my head.

"Maybe he'll let us borry one, then. You got a quarter we can borry, country boy? I'm gonna let the boy toss. Heads I break your arms, tails I don't. Let the boy borry a quarter."

His eyes bulging under the Indian's grip on his collar, the man felt in his pocket and dropped a quarter in my palm with trembling fingers.

Em looked at it and frowned. "Don't believe I'd let him toss with that one if I's you. Looks like to me it's dead sure to come up heads. If I's you I'd let him try another one." The man got the point and dug out another, and another, until Em nodded. I had eight dollars in quarters. The amount Em had lost. I tossed the coin and Em said, "What is it?"

The hustler studied my face intently. I smiled at him. "Tails."

"Well, that's all for me, then. I'm whupped." Em hauled the man up and slapped his shoulder. "By damn, country boy, there just ain't no way to beat you a'tall!"

The hustler made for the door and we watched him clear the traffic and go flopping-britched across the square.

Jayell pulled himself off of the stool. "For Christ's sake, can we go haul some rock now?"

We loaded the truck from a slag pile at one of the quarries. Skeeter and Carlos were there, along with several of the old shop boys. One of them had brought a sack of cold baked sweet potatoes and salted cracklings, and we spent a convivial afternoon hoisting rock and listening to Em's rambling stories. For a while it was like old times. When the truck was loaded Em, who had been carrying on over how Carlos had grown into such a husky young man, and going out of his way to compliment him on the weight he could lift, began to hint that maybe he was ready to do the sledgehammer trick. The trick consisted of gripping the handle in one hand, arm extended, and lowering the sledgehammer toward one's face until it touched the forehead, then lifting it up again. I never saw anyone who could do it but Em, but Carlos, bloated with praise, had to give it a try. Sure enough, he knocked himself cockeyed. Skeeter laughed until he had to sit down.

"All right," said Jayell, "let's get rolling."

When we drove into Marble Park and came in view of Jayell's place, we noticed people gathering in the yard. Gwen was on the steps, engaged in animated conversation with a group of neighbors.

"Oh, my God," said Jayell, "what now?"

As soon as the truck stopped she came running.

"Jay," she said ominously, "we had a near disaster this afternoon.

What happened?" Jayell climbed out and glanced around the group.

"That limb," she said, pointing, "came
that
close to killing little Harvey Henderson." A giant branch from the dead oak tree that bordered the Henderson property lay at the foot of the tree. "There was no wind or anything; it just broke and fell, right where he had been playing not two minutes before!"

"I'd just called him in," interjected Eleanor Henderson, the type who received providential nudgings. "I don't know why—I was watching from the kitchen window, and I had this
feeling
, something just
told
me." She raised her voice to accommodate the new arrivals. "And no sooner had he got in the house than I heard this awful crash!
Ka-womp
! Lord, I thought the roof was coming in!"

They gathered around the great elbow lying on the ground. It was as big around as a man, gray and warty with age. The lawn was littered with bark and twigs shattered from its brittle branches. Gwen was pale. "Jayell, you've been promising to have that tree cut down."

"I know, I know, and I will."

"Well, it would be nice to have it done before it kills somebody."

Jayell bent and put a chip in his mouth. "Yes, and I will have it done, Gwen."

Harold Henderson tried to cut the awkwardness. "There's a tree company in town, Jayell . . ."

"I've tried them," said Jayell, "they're tied up with the telephone company."

Another neighbor spoke up. "How about that colored fella that takes care of your place, Judge?"

All eyes swung to Judge Strickland. He puckered his lips on his pipe and considered it, and shook his head. "He hasn't the experience nor the help for a job like that."

"He's got his boy that works with him."

The judge was mildly irritated; he was not accustomed to having his judgment questioned. "No, I wouldn't risk it. Old man like that—if they did some damage, or one of them got hurt, you could have quite a legal tangle on your hands. No, I wouldn't recommend that at all."

Heads nodded to the wisdom of that, and the yard fell to pondering again.

Then came a voice like a thunderclap.

"Well, damned if this don't beat all
I
ever saw!"

The group broke open and there was Jojohn, hands on his hips, shaking his head in disgust. "Here we got a dozen grown men a-worryin' and a-frettin' over one old tree. Why come we don't cut her down?"

Harold Henderson was the first to recover. "It's not that simple," he said. "Felling trees is tricky business."