Such Sweet Thunder (38 page)

“Is the fire hot?” asked Mr. Grey.

“What fire, Mr. Grey?”

Mr. Grey turned on him with a look of extreme agitation.

“I reckon so,” said Mr. Johnson, “I —”

“Come-come!” said Mr. Grey to Amerigo, who had tried to slow down in order to catch his breath. “Late thirteen times in the past five weeks. We’ll have to show
this
young turtle. Ey, Mr. Johnson?”

An acute pain smote him in the pit of his stomach, causing him to grip the muscles of his bowels, while a sweetish-sour spittle rose to his throat. His eyesight grew hazy and his temples throbbed. He followed Mr. Grey down the hall, past George Washington, down into the dark gray cement-floored basement where they played when the weather was bad. Empty now; their footfalls echoed throughout the vacant rooms that shot off from the main passageway through another passageway that led them past the gym where the odor of sweat rose, causing him to suddenly jerk his head aside. Just then Mr. Grey sucked the spittle through his teeth, causing Amerigo to stumble and Mr. Johnson to scuff the sole of his shoe against the floor. They were walking past the shower room where they bathed every Thursday. He could hear the hilarious screaming of naked children no bigger than he, he saw their bodies glistening in the falling water. And then the sound ceased abruptly: Boom! Mr. Grey had opened a huge iron door, motioned for him and Mr. Johnson to go in, and had closed the door securely behind him: Boom!

They stood at the top of a cement staircase, looking down into the great furnace room. The huge furnace loomed up from the smooth concrete floor, a black iron house from which a quiet howling came. Like the wind in the empty house! he thought. He looked toward the upper reaches of the room. Hoary shafts of light streamed through three small windows near the ceiling. He followed the light down to the huge coal bins standing against the south wall opposite the furnace, which occupied more than half the area of a room almost as large as the gym. The bins were filled with great pyramids of coal.

“Come-come-come! Tisct-tisct!” Mr. Grey grabbed him by the arm. He started to cry and pull back. He looked to Mr. Johnson for help, but he had already descended the staircase and now stood looking up at them with an expression of agitated expectancy upon his face. He was a tall slender man, but now he looked very short, very small beside the huge furnace, and his dusky skin seemed to be made of the same tough iron of which the furnace was made.

Amerigo helplessly allowed himself to be dragged to the foot of the staircase. He stood trembling and whimpering in front of the furnace. Mr. Grey held him firmly by the shoulders.

“Do you know what this is?” Mr. Grey demanded. “This is a
furnace!
This is where we put bad little boys who come to school
late!
”

Amerigo’s body shook convulsively. He looked up into the face of the furnace, the upper half of which was full of deep cylindrical holes.

They looked like eyes. A cold blast of air washed over his body: “Naw! Naw!” he cried. “Let me go! P-l-e-a-s-e let me go! I won’t do it no more!
M-O-M!
” writhing in Mr. Grey’s grasp: “MAAAma!”

Meanwhile the eyes stared at him, the conscienceless yellow eyes.

“
Open ’er up
, Mr. Johnson!” Mr. Grey laughed.

Amerigo tried to break away. He fought with all his might, but Mr. Grey caught him by the leg and held him fast. A warm stinging sensation oozed between his legs and wet the seat of his pants.

“I said OPEN THE FURNACE DOOR, Mr. Johnson!”

Mr. Johnson opened the door. A brilliant yellow light cut a thick wedge into the gray atmosphere of the room and illuminated their faces, firing the pupils of Mr. Grey’s greenish brown eyes.

“Put more coal on! Tisct! Tisct!” Mr. Grey had him now; he couldn’t get away. “Thirteen times tardy! We’ll have to teach this one a lesson that he’ll
never
forget! Be
still!
”

Mr. Johnson stared at Mr. Grey for a moment, gritting his teeth so hard that the strained muscles of his jaw made a deep crease in his cheek.

“All right, Mr. Johnson!”

Mr. Johnson grabbed one of the huge widemouthed shovels that leaned against a square cement pillar, stepped over to the pile of fine rusty-looking coal, and scooped up a shovel full. The shovel made a ringing sound as it scraped against the floor. He raised his arched body, lifting the shovel to the length of his arms, took two long sweeping strides toward the furnace, swinging the shovel back in an elliptical plane, its mouth aimed at the mouth of the furnace, and with one quick agile lunge swished it in: Woomb! It landed evenly upon the bed of coals, emitting a cloud of smoke permeated by a spray of yellow flames that shot up through the bed of fire like long yellow blades of grass.

Beads of sweat stood out on Mr. Johnson’s face. The command obeyed, he stood rigidly, his shovel by his side, growling angrily at Mr. Grey.

“NOW!” Mr. Grey cried. Amerigo felt himself swinging into the air, his head advancing near to the flames — and back. He tried to scream. His mouth stretched wide open and the veins of his neck and throat swelled out in tight blue chords against his black skin. BUT NO SOUND CAME!

“You going to be late again?” asked Mr. Grey, laughing nervously within the vacuum of imprisoned sound. He tried to answer:

“NAWSIR! NAWSIR!”

But no sound would rise above the terror that stretched his jaws and strained his lungs. At the same time a wild uncontrollable laughter: Ha! — hahaha haaaaaaa! — filled his mind and terrified him even more.

“Are you going to be on time from now on? SPEAK!”

NO SOUND CAME.

His head grew nearer the flames.

“SPEAK!”

He shook his head weakly from side to side, again and again, his face now bathed in a shower of sweat, the stench oozing uncontrollably from between his legs and down into his stockings. Mr. Grey released him. He crumbled to the floor, sobbing dumbly, shaking his head.

“I think he’s learned his lesson, Mr. Johnson,” Mr. Grey was saying. “Haven’t you?” suddenly turning his eyes upon him again.

“No more … no more … no more …” he muttered with great effort: “…  No … more …”

They ate supper in silence: lima beans, oxtails, and corn bread. The kitchen was warm and damp because the walls, windows, and curtains were sweating. The cold blue evening air outside looked like water.

“It raaaained forty days! An’ it rained forty nights!”
Amerigo heard the reverend declare.
“Didn’t it rain? Didn’t you hear it? Listen! L-i-s-t-e-n! Have mersey, Je-sus!”

The next time it’ll be by fire! he thought.

“Sister Bill’s movin’ out south,” Viola was saying. “An’ Allie’s
done
gone! They got a house with a yard an’ grass an’ ever’thin’.”

“On Park, ain’ it?” Rutherford asked, biting into a fresh slice of corn bread.

“Yeah, Sixteenth Street. I sure don’t blame ’um none — for gittin’ out a this
alley!
With all these drunken low-lifers an’ —” She lowered her voice and shot a glance at the toilet door, “dopers an’ hustlers an’ ever’thin’ else you kin take the time to name. Looks like we gonna be the last ones to leave away from down here.”

“You gotta have money to live out south,” Rutherford replied. “Them niggahs movin’ out south! Payin’ all they sal’ry out in rent an’ can’t even eat! I see ’um.
Big shots!
Drivin’ around in Cad’llacs an’
gotta sleep in ’um at night. Unh-huh! We all right here. Ninety percent a them jokers is on relief. What’s that? Owe the man for every stick a furniture they own. Lot of ’um don’ even own the clothes on they back. At least we got enough to eat. An’ we ain’ on no relief. An’ the stuff that we have got that we gittin’ on time is almost paid for — that is if you ain’ already gone downtown an’ bought somethin’ else.”

“Ol’ lady Crippa’s talkin’ ’bout raisin’ the rent.”

“Raisin’
what
rent!”

“
This
rent! I told ’er ’bout ’er promisin’ to paper these walls. Ain’ been papered in three years, I said. Look!” throwing a wide-eyed glance at the walls, causing Rutherford and him to do likewise. “Just look! It’s all yellow an’ stained from sweatin’ so much. It’s a wonder we all ain’ got pneumonia in this damp gas heat!”

“That ol’ woman don’t never fix nothin’,” added Rutherford irritably. “That old porch about to fall down. An’ all she kin do is to figure out ways to squeeze more money out a somebody. For cryin’ out loud! Well — we ain’
payin’ nothin’!
Not a cryin’ dime more! An’-an’ if she don’ paper this dump, we’ll clear out a this rat trap! You tell ’er that!”

“Why don’t
you
tell ’er! Always tellin’
me
to tell somebody somethin’.
I
done
told
’er already. She just laughs. She don’ believe it. We been fools for so long now, she can’t git it in ’er head that we’d just up an’ move! I think that old woman’d drop dead if we ever left here!”

“She’ll just have to go to hell then, ’cause I’ll tell ’er! Tell ’er in a minute! Just wait till the next time she starts some a that raisin’-the-rent-money crap! I’ll tell ’er to her teeth!”

The telephone rang.

“Go an’ answer the phone, son,” said Rutherford.

“The Jones residence … hello?… hello?…”

“Who was it?” Rutherford asked, as he entered the kitchen.

“They hung up.”

Rutherford shot a cutting glance at Viola. She looked into her plate. There followed a long tense silence that lasted for two minutes.

The telephone rang.

“I’ll git it!” Rutherford declared, almost knocking his chair down, springing from the table.

“Hello? Aw — hi, Allie Mae. Eh … uh … I don’ know.”

He stole a glance at Viola. She smiled a barely perceptible smile — with her eyes only.

“I don’ know,” Rutherford was saying. “Here — I’ll let you talk to Viola. S’long. All right. Yeah. Yeah — Unh-huh. Okay o-o-o-kay … well … Yeah? Well, take it easy. I’ll give ’er to you.…”

Viola went to the phone. Rutherford took his seat at the table and stared fixedly into Amerigo’s eyes. He studied his empty plate.

“Well, take it easy,” Rutherford was saying. Dressed and ready to go, he stood before the kitchen door. Viola was taking her straightening combs out of the cabinet drawer. Amerigo was drying the dishes.

He’s going to the barbershop, he thought. To old man Moore’s … Bra Mo … Queen Moore — some more — anymore … down on Twelfth Street.

“An’ that old man kin go!” he heard Rutherford exclaim. “When he wants to. Catch ’im when he ain’ all juiced up an’ he’ll cut you a head a hair that won’t don’t. Scissors an’ comb. None a that sugar-bowl jive with clippers. Beveled down, Jackson!”

“I have to git mine all cut off,” Amerigo thought with not a little resentment. “An’ down on the avenue instead a out on Twelfth Street.”

“Well, girl, I’m gonna leave it with you,” Rutherford was saying. “After I git my hair cut, I think I’ll drift down on Eighteenth Street an’ try to see if I kin run into ol’ T. C. or Willard an’ some a the boys. I ain’ got but about a foot an’ a half, so I’ll be home early — unless one a the cats opens up a keg a nails!”

“Okay,” said Viola blandly. “Don’ do nothin’ I wouldn’ do!”

“Bye, son,” said Rutherford.

“Bye.”

He watched him leave with admiration, and thought: He’s the best-looking man in the w-h-o-l-e w-o-r-l-d! Embarrassed, he let his glance fall into the soapy water. Brilliant clusters of rainbow-colored soap bubbles floated upon its surface like little jeweled islands that broke up and disappeared — or multiplied! — when he wiggled his fingers.

Suddenly he was singing: “I’d work for you,” as Rutherford’s footfall faded upon the stair: “slave for you … I’d be a beggar or a maaaaaid for you! If that ain’ love … it’ll have to do … until the real thing comes along!” He closed his eyes. “I’d gladly move … the earth for you, to prove my love, dear, an’ it’s wo-orth for you —”

“If that ain’ love!” cried Viola, joining him.

He opened his eyes. She stood in front of the gas stove fastening her apron, her head thrown back: “It’ll have to do. Now gimme some harmony, there. You take the tenor an’ I’ll take the alto.” He smiled at his mother, and they did the thing together:

“Until — the — r-e-a-l thing — comesa — loooooong!”

They grinned at each other with satisfaction.

“Wait! Wait a minute!” she cried, suddenly raising her hand as a sign for him to pay attention. Her eyes flashed, her lips expanded and her teeth sparkled.

Like pearls. Ain’
nobody
in the
whole world
got no teeth no prettier’n hers!

“Wait a minute!” she was saying, and he waited within the aura of excitement that was now poised upon the fingertips of her extended right hand.

Snap!
went the finger. “I got it! Some think … the world was made for fun an’ folly — an’ so do I! Eh … let me see … how does the rest of it go? Boy — you shoulda heard your daddy an’ me sing that! We was in the seventh grade. In Miss Phoenix’s class. He was first tenor an’ I was alto. I led the whole section!”

“I hope they’ll still be singin’ it when
I
git in the seventh grade,” he exclaimed, but Viola didn’t hear, she was still searching for the lost words to the song.

“Aw — it’ll come back,” she said. “I kin just hear it so plain! Ain’ that funny?” Her expression gradually grew calm and thoughtful. “Then there was ‘The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.’ Your daddy usta love that, too.”

“How did it go?”

Viola lifted her head toward the ceiling and began:

“The girl-of-my-dreams-is-the-sweetest-girl-of-all — the girls I know. Eeeeech co-eeeed — like a rain-bow trail, lost — in the afterglow. The blue of ’er eyes — an’ the gold of ’er hair — like a haze in the western s-k-y! An’ the moonlight beeeeams!… on the girl of my dreams, the sweetheart — of — Sig-ma — Chi!”

He gazed wondrously upon his mother’s face.

“I kin sing ’um down to the bricks when I want to.…” Viola was saying. Then she looked curiously at the straightening comb in her left hand and exclaimed: “That gal’s late agin!”

“Who?”

He perceived a cool fluid sensation on the backs of his hands. The water’s cold.