Standing at the Scratch Line (62 page)

Booker Little stood at the edge of the desk and waited to be recognized. Big Daddy made no effort to shake his hand, but Booker’s face gave no indication that he had noticed the slight.

Big Daddy stared across the desk at a product of his indiscretion. Here was another one of his sons, one who showed more clearly his Bolton lineage than did his all-white brother. He definitely possessed Bolton’s cunning and ambition. With a small loan from Big Daddy, he had built up the businesses in Bodie Wells from scratch and he was well on his way to putting a stranglehold on Bodie Wells like Big Daddy had on Clairborne. Like father, like son. “Long time no see, Booker,” Big Daddy said without inflection.

“Yes sir, Mr. Bolton,” Booker said with polite smile. “I try to run the business in such a way that we don’t need to meet often.”

Even for a son, he was too confident for a Negro. Big Daddy countered sarcastically, “But you seem to have failed this time, though. Not so? After all, I hear that someone else other than us bought the Morgans’ property. I also hear that some of your assistants have been found dead. And lastly, someone seems to be printing a fly-by-night newspaper that does not represent our interests well. We could lose this upcoming mayoral election. What do you have to say about these things?”

“We’ve discovered how the paper is printed,” Booker answered. His face was serious, the smile was gone. “Clara Nesbitt has been getting it printed by the
Colored Chronicle
in Johnsonville.”

“Florence Nesbitt’s girl? She travels almost fifty miles round trip to get this trash published? What are you doing about it?”

“Well, nothing, sir,” Booker explained. “You said to keep things calm while the circuit judge is in town and I followed your orders.”

“That’s a good idea” Skip affirmed. “The judge is only going to be here through January fifth. After that, Marshal Bass retires and we’ll have a freer hand. We do anything before that and Marshal Bass will wire the judge and we’ll have him sitting on our shoulders watching everything we do.”

“I think we can stop the distribution of the paper without causing much of a stir,” Booker offered. “Some of the town folk are whispering and meeting about incorporating Bodie Wells into a township. I don’t believe there’s much of a chance of success, particularly if the employers in Clairborne make it known that—”

Big Daddy interrupted, “Hell, most people in Clairborne don’t know about or don’t care what’s going on in Bodie Wells. We are the ones who stand to lose the most if the town incorporates. We’ll have to go this alone. If you lose the election for mayor and we can’t influence the appointment of a new marshal, our control over Bodie Wells will be lost. We need a plan.”

“This is the holiday season,” Booker offered. “If we let things rest now, maybe they’ll think that they’ve won. Then after Bass retires, we’ll pick up in February and we’ll catch them unprepared.”

“Where is Elmo Thomas?” Big Daddy asked. He had to stop himself from smiling: Booker had recommended the exact same path of action he would have.

Further conversation was preempted when the door opened and Sarah walked in, followed by her son, Frank. She had a big smile on her face. “Why Skip, Big Daddy told me you were going to be here. I just didn’t think you’d pass without greeting your sister and nephew.” She went over and kissed his cheek in a manner that clearly indicated that she had other things on her mind than greeting her brother. “Why don’t you shake hands with your uncle, Frank?” she said with a smile, but her eyes were throwing daggers at Booker.

Frank could hardly complete the pro forma action with his uncle because he too was staring at Booker. “What are you doing here?” he challenged, an angry expression contorting his face.

“We’re talking business. My business! So, it’s none of your business!” Big Daddy said the words with relish. His only legal son was such a painful disappointment to him that in a perverse manner, he now desired to cause this son some discomfort.

“Surely you don’t mean that,” Sarah said with a frown. “This is your only son. He’s going to be your heir. He should know the ins and outs, especially the orders you’re giving the servants.” She gave Booker a meaningful look.

“I mean it! He’s useless! Booker here has done better—”

“You’re not going to compare your only son to a Nigra bastard!” Sarah pronounced “Negro” in such a way as to indicate she meant to say “nigger” but her breeding wouldn’t allow her. Sarah began hyperventilating behind a handkerchief that she pressed to her mouth. Her son, Frank, who was used to ignoring these episodes, rushed to her side with pretended concern. Neither Skip, who grew up with her, nor Big Daddy moved a muscle.

“Some bastards are worth something, while others who have all the fortune from birth are not worth manure,” Big Daddy said easily.

Big Daddy’s words made Sarah drop her pretense and stare at him with hatred. She turned to her brother. “That’s your nephew he’s insulting. Aren’t you going to say something?”

Skip knew on which side his bread was buttered: he put up his hands and backed away. “This is between you all.”

Sarah turned and marched from the room. Frank was left standing there in confusion. With an expression and a gesture, he made a silent plea to his father, but his father simply made a fist and gave the thumbs-down sign. Frank Bolton, humiliated in front of his half-white brother, shuffled from the room with head down and fallen shoulders.

“Maybe we could use someone with Mr. Frank’s skills,” Booker suggested as Frank neared the door. “I have a plan I’d like to discuss with you that could involve him.”

Big Daddy looked at Frank’s face and saw a look of pure hatred directed at Booker. Instead of being thankful that Booker would want to include him, Frank hated him all the more for having the audacity to show charity. Big Daddy turned to Booker and saw him smiling in response to Frank’s look. Big Daddy was beginning to like the situation more and more. Maybe Booker was smarter than he thought. Just what did he have planned for Frank?

“Alright, Frank, you can stay!” Sarah started to reenter the room, but Big Daddy stopped her. “Not you, Sarah. You’ve accomplished your goal: Frank is part of the meeting. Now close the door!”

Big Daddy turned to face the three men in his office with a big smile. He was planning on enjoying the competition between Booker and Frank. It seemed that Frank had all the advantages, but Big Daddy wouldn’t give even money for his success. It was a terrible thing to say, but he could see his blood more clearly in Booker.

T
 U E S D A Y,  
D
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Christmas Day had passed without word from King. He had been gone over a month. Serena did not know where he was, nor did she have anyone to contact who could tell her. All he had said before he left Bodie Wells was that he might be gone for some time. Initially she figured his trip had something to do with his bootlegging business. He had made several short weekend trips in the past, returning each time with wads of cash and cases of liquor. Yet this time was different. As the weeks passed, she began to fear the worst. It even entered her mind that he might be dead. It was the darkest and loneliest holiday season that she had ever spent. She had never endured so much time in silence. She missed her sisters and her little brother and felt an aching sense of loss when she thought about her mother. But she cried on no one’s shoulder. She gritted her teeth and kept herself busy.

The wind had died down for the first time in a week. Sounds of traffic echoed along the corridor of Main Street as people returned to their homes after the dinner hour. With a fire crackling in the potbellied stove, Serena sat in her rocking chair holding a letter addressed to King Tremain, Bodie Wells, Oklahoma. There was no information about the sender. The handwriting was in a bold, irregular scrawl. Serena picked up the envelope and held it up to the light of the bulb: there appeared to be two sheets of paper within it. She considered the possibility that the letter might contain some clues to King’s whereabouts, yet she set the envelope back down on the highboy as she had done a hundred times before. As always her examination led to no conclusion.

Her days were spent working with Sampson in the receiving, inventorying, and placement of shipments of fabric, leather goods, foodstuff, ammunition, hunting weapons, and an assortment of other items for the general store. The stock was coming in rapidly. The store would be ready to open in the middle of January. The carpenters completed their work in the main building, including her dress shop, and had begun to work on repairing the barn and granary outbuildings. There was always work to do. Sometimes she and Sampson worked themselves to the brink of exhaustion. She had chosen to stop going to the beauty parlor, because the talk generally centered around the latest gossip. After two weeks she had heard all the stories twice, plus she had neither time nor the inclination for gossip.

Her nights were spent in the second-story flat above the store in the rocking chair beside the stove. In the beginning, her principal pastime was reading the Bible, but through Clara Nesbitt she discovered a whole new range of fiction and poetry. She now spent evenings reading stories by Chesnutt, J. Weldon Johnson, and Hughes. But there were many evenings when she was incapable of visualizing the concepts and images developed in print. On such nights she was filled with doubt and fear and would return to stare at the letter on the highboy many times.

Outside on the street, there was the sound of boisterous men laughing and talking. The weather had taken an unseasonal temperature swing upward into the low forties and some drovers and farmhands suffering from cabin fever had come to town to drink and carouse at the Black Rose, located a mile outside of Bodie Wells. Serena looked at the tall pendulum clock and saw that it was after eight o’clock in the evening. It was late for a bunch of men to be on the street; during the winter all town businesses closed at six in the evening. It occurred to her that the men might have come from the cockfights that Lightning was rumored to have every fortnight or so. Her perplexity ended when she heard a loud banging on the store’s front door.

“Tremain, come out! I hear you’s the one responsible fo’ killin’ my brothers! Come on out here and deal with me like a man! I’m Elmo Thomas and I’m callin’ you out!”

Serena stood up and walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back to look down on the street below. She could see two men standing in the street. The loud banging on the store door continued. Shades were pulled up and curtains were opened up and down the street as people peered out their windows to see the cause of the commotion. Serena knew that no one but Marshal Bass would come to her assistance.

“Tremain! Are you yellow? Come out and deal with me face-to-face!” More banging.

Serena donned her shawl and then went to the bureau and took out a revolver that King had given her. With gun hidden under the shawl, she went downstairs to open the door. When she reached the bottom of the stairs Sampson stepped out of the shadows holding a shotgun. He followed her to the door, which she unlocked and opened.

Elmo Thomas stood there swaying with drink. He was a muscular brown-skinned man whose nose had been broken many times, and he had a twisted, evil smile. He leered at her and said, “Where Tremain? He afraid to come down and deal with me? Do I have to come in there searchin’ for him?” He pushed open the door roughly, throwing Serena backward. Elmo would have continued on into the store if Sampson had not jammed the barrel of the shotgun into his throat and shoved him up against the wall.

“Don’t make any sudden moves, Mr. Thomas. The shotgun has a hair trigger,” Serena advised. She straightened her shawl. And don’t come back here again, Mr. Thomas. My husband will come looking for you in due time. If I know him, he’ll be happy to visit you after I tell him about this.”

Despite the shotgun against his neck, Elmo threatened, “If I ain’t seen him by New Year’s Day, I’m gon’ come back here and burn this place down!”

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Mr. Thomas. That might be the last match you ever light. Your family has already lost two sons. We’d be adding another to the list. Of course, I’ve heard that you breed like roaches, so the loss of three sons may hardly be noticed. Let him go for now, Sampson.”