Such Sweet Thunder (42 page)

“T. C.!” he cried excitedly.

“T. C.,” Viola exclaimed, as though she had not heard him say it, looking toward the screen door with a broad smile.

Then another whistle just like the first one: One long, two short, three long. It came from the alley: Dad! He thought enviously, sadly reflecting that he could not whistle like that no matter how hard he tried.

“That usta be our emergency signal!” he heard Rutherford saying. “We’d git to fightin’ an’ the rocks’d start to flyin’. Things’d git a little tough an’ I couldn’ see no way out a that mess an’ then I’d whistle — or he’d whistle — an’ one or the other’d come a-runnin’!”

“One time, ’Mer’go,” T. C.’s voice was saying, “me and old Rutherford was swimmin’ in the river, ha — ha!”

“Hot damn! I
knowed it!
” Rutherford exclaimed. “That niggah’s been razzin’ me ’bout that for
twenty years!
”

“Aw-haw! haw! haw!” T. C. laughed. “We was swimmin’ in the river, ’Mer’go. Me an’ your poppa. He was a swimmer! Haw! haw! That little joker caught a cramp! M-a-n, you ought to a seen him strugglin’ an’ scufflin’! That cat tried to whistle! Every time he’d work up his mouth he’d spout water like a whale! Had his lips all screwed up an’ wasn’ no sound comin’ out! I was swimmin’ behind him, laughin’. He went down three times, too! That Missouri River was dangerous, Jack. You ever git caught in one a them whirlpools
right
— that’s the
end!
”

“That’s the truth, Amerigo!” said Rutherford. “It’s a wonder we didn’ git drowned in that river at least a dozen times!”

“Anyway,” T. C. continued, “ol’ Rutherford was just a spoutin’! ‘Hold on!’ I yelled, ‘I’m a-comin’!’ ”

“Hold on to what, niggah?” said Rutherford. “He come tellin’ me to h-o-l-d o-n — an’ me about to drink that river dry! I had the worse cramp I ever had in my life, you hear me? I thought I was a goner!”

“I grabbed that joker,” said T. C., “an’ he started to fightin’. An’ that li’l joker was
strong!
He was li’l, but he could whip anything his size, ’Mer’go, an’ them big cats wouldn’ fool with ’im neither. Huh! git that little niggah man an’ he’d
bite
you to death! An’ scratch? Scratch like
a cat! Well, he like to got us
both
drowned. I got away from that cat. Started to treadin’ the water, Jack. Prancin’-like. An’ then I squared off on that joker. Haw! haw! I hit ’im with a c-l-e-a-n right cross. Right on the button! An’ that cat saw stars!”

“Battlin’ T. C. B.!” Rutherford grinned.

“Aaaaaaaw! An’ then, ’Mer’go, an’ then I dragged ’im in. An’ when I done pumped half the river out a that cat, he rolled his bloodshot eyes an’ said — you know what he said?”

“Naw!” said Viola.

“What?” Amerigo asked.

“Niggah — what you come hittin’ me for? Ah-ha! ha! Ain’ that a killer?”

“Hi, T.!” he yelled from the kitchen door, watching the big man approach. His smooth healthy black skin stood out against his fresh white shirt. The collar was open and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he wore a light brown straw hat that appeared almost white in the light that streamed from the kitchen door.

“What you say, there, big shot?” said T. C., stepping into the kitchen. He grabbed him by the armpits and swung him up toward the ceiling, and then down between his straddled legs, and up again, while the laughter bubbled uncontrollably from his throat until he almost choked.

“Whew!” T. C. exclaimed. “Vi, what you feedin’ this joker? He’s h-e-a-v-y! Let me feel your muscle!” He stood Amerigo on his feet, and he raised his right arm and strained to raise his biceps as high as possible.

“Feel that little joker’s arm, Vi! Got a build like a prizefighter!” He rained blows on T. C.’s stomach and tried to jump up and catch him by the neck.

“Hi, T.,” said Viola. “Amerigo! Cool down an’ let T. C. catch his breath. Don’ be so bothersome!”

“Aw Mom, I was just —”

“He don’ hurt me none, Vi. Let ’im play. Put-up-yo’-dukes, Jack Johnson!”

He fell into a fighting stance, but Viola gave him a look that made him drop his guard.

“You oughtta try that bad left hook on some a them little boys that run you home every day!”

“What?” said T. C. with surprise. “You mean they runnin’ my boy home?”

“Yeah! —” said Viola, “— they knockin’ knots on his head an’ tearin’ his clothes half off a him.
Somebody
better show him how to take care of hisself.”

“Unh!” said T. C. “We got to put a stop to
this!
B-o-y — me an’ your daddy was the battlin’est little niggahs on the whole North End! By the way, where is that joker?”

“He’s down on the front porch shootin’ the bull with Lucille. They at each other’s throats like cats an’ dogs! That woman couldn’ resist a crack if she was dyin’! Come on down. Had your supper?”

“Aw, I ain’ hungry!”

“Boy,” Viola grinned, “I ain’ never seen you in my whole life when you
wasn’
hungry! It’s a dirty shame the way this man kin eat, Amerigo! Here, pull up a chair, T., an’ I’ll see what I kin find.”

Viola took the remains of the corn bread from the oven and a bowl of boiled cabbage from the icebox. She emptied the cabbage into a pan and put it on the stove and lit the gas. Presently the strong pleasant smell of cabbage filled the kitchen. Meanwhile she put the remaining piece of fish in the skillet, warmed it, and when the cabbage was hot, loaded his plate and set it before him.

“Look at what old Vi’s puttin’ down!” he exclaimed, laying to the food as though it were his first meal in years.

Viola peeled an onion, washed it, diced it, and scattered it over his cabbage.

“You knowed it, didn’t you!” he exclaimed, looking up at her with childish affection while she admiringly watched him devour the food.

Viola set the bottle of beer before him and started for the glass.

“Ummmm-umh!” he grunted, waving her back. He raised the sweaty bottle to his lips, and the foamy contents disappeared into his massive throat to the rhythmic shuttling of his gurgle-pipe.

After a while a soft mound swelled the white belly of his shirt, he heaved a contented sigh, belched, wiped his mouth with the back of his huge hand, and scooted his chair away from the table.

“That’ll git it every time!” he said.

“WHAT!”

Rutherford stood in the kitchen door. “I
thought
somethin’ was wrong! Me settin’ down on the porch — all innocent an’ ever’thin’ — an’ this joker’s up here eatin’ me out a house an’ home!”

“Too late now, Jackson!” said T. C. with a beautiful grin: “You shoulda locked the barn door
before
the mule got away! Ah-ha! ha! What you say there, man!”

“What
you
say! I thought the law must a had you or somethin’, ain’ seen you in so long!”

“Aaaaaw, you know how it is, Rutherford.”

“Yeah,
I
know, you been runnin’ around with those low-lifers on Twelfth Street. Lettin’ ’um drink you up an —”

Viola shot a significant glance at Rutherford, who immediately ceased to speak, and they both watched Amerigo staring at T. C. with such absorbed attention that he failed to notice that they were looking at him.

“Ain’t you through yet?” said Rutherford.

He continued to stare at T. C., absentmindedly drying the dishpan with the dishrag.

“Ain’t you through yet?” he repeated.

“That little joker’s out a this world!” said T. C.

“Amerigo!”

He looked at Rutherford dumbly, as though he did not recognize him: “Yessir.”

“Naw — he ain’ finished yet,” said Viola: “Looka here!” pointing to two pans filled with water on the back burners of the gas range.

“Them’s soakin’!” he exclaimed.

“That cat’s
always soakin’
somethin’!” said Rutherford.

“An’ what about these?” said Viola, pointing to the dishes T. C. had used.

“Aw Mom! That ain’ no fair! Them don’ count till tamarra!”

“Git me a bottle a brew, boy!” said Rutherford, “before I lose my temper an’ kill you!”

“An’ I
know
you ain’ gonna forgit your Uncle T.!” said T. C.

“Git me one, too, babe,” said Viola.

“Come on. Ever’body, let’s go down on the porch,” said Rutherford.

“Wait a minute!” said Viola, suddenly dashing into the middle room. They all looked expectantly after her.

“She’s gonna kill me like that one a these days,”
said Rutherford’s voice.

Why’s she doing it? he wondered.

“Hey! hey!” T. C. shouted. His handsome face broke into a smile. Viola was whirling about the kitchen in her silver fox furs.

“Ain’ that somethin’, T.?” she said.

“G-i-r-l — them’s a killer! You sharp as two tacks! You kin ba
lieve
me!”

The frown upon Rutherford’s face deepened.

“You know, Rutherford,” said T. C., “you’re a lucky joker to have a wife like Viola. A woman that’ll stick by you, Jack! An’ be a good mother an’ all that. An’ on top a that, she’s proud. Yeah! Always
did
want to be somebody. That gal’s one a the dressin’est women on the whole North End. Yessir! An’ she don’ only know what to wear, but how an’ when to wear it! Class, Jackson. That’s what I like! Boy,” he turned to Amerigo, “you got a good-lookin’ momma!”

“Yeah,” said Rutherford, “that’s true, all right.” His frown had faded now, and a slightly confused, slightly embarrassed smile worked its way into his expression. “Ol’ Vi sure likes fine togs, all right. You know one thing? She got more clothes then ol’ man Mac’s wife. No kiddin’! I’m scaired to open up the closet half a time — afraid a new pair a shoes’ll fall out an’ bust my brains out! No crap! An’ me a porter in a cheap hotel! An’ in the depression to boot!”

“Turn around there, Vi,” said T. C., “an’ let’s have another look at you!”

She walked and whirled and turned and smiled, and charmed the smiles deeper into their faces, until a bright tension shimmered in the air and created an atmosphere that was like the Fourth of July. A great lump of affectionate feeling for his mother rose to this throat, and he thought: She’s the prettiest woman in the w-h-o-l-e w-o-r-l-d!

“Let’s go down on the porch,” Rutherford was saying. He, Viola, and T. C. moved toward the front room. “Douse that glim,” said Rutherford to him over his shoulder, and he, glancing at the dishes that T. C. had used and the pots soaking on the stove, thrilled to a dizzying sense of escape, which caused him to knock his knee against the chair as he rushed for the light switch too eagerly. A sharp pain shot through his body, and tears rushed into his eyes. He gasped in an effort to suppress the pain, as he stumbled through the house in the dark and down the dark stairs to the front porch where a little group of barely visible people sat huddled around the lamp-ringed tranquility of the evening.

The air was alive with cricket-song! Moths and gnats flitted in and out of the lamplight and crashed against its shade with a faint tinny din. Fireflies darted in and out of magic globules of phosphorescent light, against the massive darkness of the big cottonwood tree that towered above Sammy Sales’s house, which stood opposite Toodle-lum’s house on the Charlotte Street side, west.

Like a Christmas tree, he thought, fascinated by the light, oblivious to the voices that droned about his ears. But Christmas won’t come for a long time. After summer goes away … and all the leaves on the trees fall off and school starts, and geography and history and l-o-n-g di-vision!

“I wouldn’ be surprised if they wouldn’ be at it agin!” a voice was saying.

“Naw, I wouldn’ either,” said another voice. “All you kin read in the papers these days is pictures of generals an’ armies! An’ those Germans is
smart!
They know all about war. Makin’ all ’em high-powered machines an’ things: submarines, poison gas! A — they got more ways a warrin’ than I got blues!”

Someone sighed within the shadows of the porch.

“People’s starvin’ over there. Things ain’ gonna go on like that much longer.”

“Things seem to be breakin’ a little better over here, though. Maybe that’ll help. An’ I’ll tell you one thing, you watch this new joker, a Democrat they gonna git to run for governor of New York, maybe. Maybe not next year, but you just wait. Roosevelt! Franklin Delanor Roosevelt. Aristocrat, Jack! Tough man! He’s comin’ up. Goin’ places. You wait an’ see if I’m lyin’. If anybody kin keep us out a war, he kin.”

T. C., he thought.

“Well, maybe he kin,” said Rutherford, “but I don’ believe that no one man kin keep nobody out a nothin’! It’s capital that rules the world! Them big shots on Wall Street. The ones that make the guns an’ airplanes an’ submarines an’ all that jive! Us scufflin’ for a livin’ — ain’ got nothin’ — got to do what the man says. An’ I mean the paddies just the same as you an’ me. War ain’ nothin’ but a business.”

“We missed the last ’un,” said T. C. thoughtfully, “but I think they’ll git us
all
if we have to go agin!”

“Where?” Amerigo asked.

“To the war,” said Rutherford.

Amerigo looked into the corrugated shadows that cut the houses into segments of light and dark up and down the alley. He looked at the sky and tried to penetrate the mystery of war. He looked at the trees that glistened with the light of the fireflies. A heavy oppressive feeling filled his heart.

“How kin you stop it?” he asked the company aloud.

“What?” asked Rutherford.

“War!”

Cricket-song filled the silence, which gradually receded into a vague sea-sound accented by occasional bursts of laughter issuing from the shadows of neighboring porches. The streetcar rumbled down the alley and slowly faded out of hearing into the sea-sound charged with cricket-song, which suddenly ceased, overwhelming his mind with a terrific silence echoing the loud boom of war!

“Pray,” said a voice. Miss Jenny. He could see her silhouette against the streetlight.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to …

“He’s got the whole world in his hands!…”
sang a great booming voice.

“How you like your new principal?” T. C. was asking. He listened with detachment to the woman’s voice that answered:

“He don’ come till next year.”