The Early Stories of Truman Capote (4 page)

Grace had stood waiting on the porch for him for almost an hour. When she had seen him down in town that afternoon he had said he would be there at eight. It was almost eight-ten. She sat down in the porch swing. She tried not to think of his coming or even to look down the road in the direction of his house. She knew that if she thought about it, it would never happen. He just wouldn't ever come.

“Grace, are you still out there, hasn't he come yet?”

“No, Mother.”

“Well you can't sit out there for the rest of the night, come right back into this house.”

She didn't want to go back in, she didn't want to have to sit in that stuffy old living room and watch her father read the news and her mother work the cross word puzzles. She wanted to stay out here in the night where she could breathe and smell and touch it. It seemed so palpable to her that she could feel its texture like fine blue satin.

“Here he comes now, Mother,” she lied, “he's coming up the road now, I'm going to run and meet him.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort, Grace Lee,” said her mother's sonorous voice.

“Yes, Mother, yes! I'll be back as soon as I say goodbye.”

She tripped down the porch steps and out into the road before her mother could say anything more.

She had made up her mind that she was going to just keep right on walking until she met him, even if she had to walk all the way to his house. This was a big night for her, not exactly a happy one, but it was a beautiful one anyway.

He was going to leave town, after all these years. It would seem so funny after he was gone. She knew nothing would ever be quite the same again. Once in school, when Miss Saaron asked the pupils to write a poem, she had written a poem about him, it was so good that it had been published in the town paper. She had called it “In the Soul of the Night.” She recited the first two lines as she sauntered along the moon drenched road.

My loves is a Bright Strong light,

That shuts out the darkness of the Night.

Once he had asked her if she really loved him. She had said, “I love you for now, but we're just kids, this is just puppy love.” But she knew she had lied, at least lied to herself, for now, for this brief moment, she knew that she loved him and then only a month ago she was quite sure it was all very childish and silly. But now that he was going away she knew this was not so. Once he had told her, after the poem episode, that she shouldn't take it so seriously, after all she was only sixteen. “Why, by the time we're twenty, if someone was to mention our names to one another we probably wouldn't even recognize the name.” She had felt terrible about that. Yes, he would probably forget her. And now he was going away and she might never see him again. He might become a great engineer just like he wanted to be, and she'd still be sitting down here in a little southern town no one ever heard of. “Maybe he won't forget me,” she told herself. “Maybe he'll come back to me and take me away from here to some big place like New Orleans or Chicago or even New York.” It made her wild eyed with happiness just to think of it.

The smell of the pine woods on either side of the road made her think of all the good times they had had picnicking and horseback riding and dancing.

She remembered the time he had asked her to go to the junior prom with him. That was when she had first known him. He was so awfully good looking and she was so proud of herself, no one would have ever thought that little Grace Lee with her green eyes and freckles would ever have walked off with a prize like him. She had been so proud and so excited that she had almost forgotten how to dance. She had been so embarrassed when she mistook the lead and he had stepped on her foot and torn her silk stocking.

And just when she had convinced herself that this was real romance her mother had gone and said that they were just children and after all children just couldn't possibly know what real “affection” was, as she termed it.

Then the girls in town, who were purple with envy, started a “We Don't Like Grace Lee Campaign.” “Look at the little fool,” they would whisper, “just throwing herself at him.” “Why she's no better than a—than a—harlot.” “I'd give a pretty penny to know what those two have been up to, but I suppose it would be too shocking for my ears.”

Her pace quickened, she got mad just when she thought of it, those smug little prigs. She never would forget the fight she had had with Louise Beavers the time she had caught her reading a letter she had written aloud to a lot of laughing girls in the school wash room. Louise had stolen the letter out of one of Grace's books and she was reading it aloud to them all with great, mocking gestures, and making a joke out of something that wasn't funny at all.

“Oh, well, that's just a lot of trivial nonsense anyway,” she thought.

The moon shone brightly in the sky, pale, wan little clouds hung around the surface like a fine lace shawl. She stared at it. She would soon be at his house. Just up this hill and down and there she would be. It was a fine little house, it was solid and substantial. It was just the perfect place for him to live, she thought.

Sometimes she thought it was just a lot of sentiment, this puppy love, but now she was certain that it wasn't. He was going to leave. He was going away to live with his aunt in New Orleans. His aunt was an artist, she did not like that very much. She had heard that artists were queer people.

He had not told her until yesterday that he was leaving. He must have been a little afraid too, she thought, and now I'm the one that's afraid. Oh, how happy everyone would be now that he was leaving and she wouldn't have him anymore, she could just see their laughing faces.

She brushed the light blonde hair out of her eyes. There was a cool wind blowing through the tree tops. She was nearing the crest of the hill, and suddenly she knew that he was coming up the other side and that they were going to meet at the top. She grew hot all over so sure was her premonition. She did not want to cry, she wanted to smile. She felt in her pocket for the picture of herself he had asked her to bring. It was a cheap snapshot that a man had taken of her at a carnival that had passed through the town. It didn't even look much like her.

Now that she was almost there she didn't want to go any further. As long as she hadn't actually said goodbye she still had him. She went and sat in the soft evening grass by the side of the road to wait for him.

“All I hope for,” she said as she stared up into the dark, moon filled sky, “is that he doesn't forget me, I suppose that's all I have a right to hope for.”

All afternoon Em had lain on the steel-framed bed. She had a scrap quilt pulled over her legs. She was just lying there and thinking. The weather had turned cold, even for Alabama.

George and all the other men from over the countryside were out looking for crazy old Sadie Hopkins. She had escaped from the jail. Poor old Sadie, thought Em, runnin' all over in those swamps and fields. She used to be such a pretty girl—just got mixed up with the wrong folks, I guess. Gone plumb crazy.

Em looked out the window of her cabin; the sky was dark and slate gray and the fields looked as if they had been frozen into furrows. She pulled the quilt closer about her. It certainly was lonesome out in this country, not another farm for four miles, fields on one side, swamp and woods on the other. She felt that maybe she had been born to be lonesome just as some people are born blind or deaf.

She stared around the small room, the four walls closing in around her. She sat silent, listening to the cheap alarm clock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

Suddenly the strangest feeling crept up her back, a feeling of fear and horror. She felt her scalp tingle. She knew, like a flash of blinding light, that there was someone watching her, someone standing very near and watching her with cold, calculating, insane eyes.

For a moment she lay so still that she could hear the pounding of her heart, and the clock sounded like a sledge hammer beating against a hollow stump. Em knew that she wasn't imagining things; she knew there was some cause for this fright; she knew by instinct, an instinct so clear and vital that it filled her whole body.

Slowly she got up and gazed about the room. She saw nothing; yet she felt that there was someone staring at her, following her every move.

She picked up the first thing that she touched, a stick of lighting wood. Then she called in a bold voice, “Who is it? What do you want?”

Only cold silence met her questions. Despite the actual physical cold she grew hot all over; she felt her cheeks burning.

“I know you're here,” she screamed hysterically. “What do you want? Why don't you show yourself? Come out, you sneakin'—”

Then she heard a voice, tired and frightened, behind her.

“It's only me, Em—Sadie, you know, Sadie Hopkins.”

Em whirled around. The woman who stood in front of her was half naked, her hair hanging wildly about her scratched and bruised face. Her legs were all marked with blood.

“Em,” she pleaded, “please help me. I'm tired and hungry. Hide me someplace. Don't let them catch me, please don't. They'll lynch me; they think I'm crazy. I'm not crazy; you know that, Em. Please, Em.” She was crying.

Em was too shocked and dazed to reply. She stumbled and sat down on the edge of the bed. “What are you doin' in here, Sadie? How did you get in?”

“I came through the back door,” the crazy woman answered. “I've got to hide someplace. They're headin' this way through the swamps and they'll find him soon. Oh, I didn't mean to do it; I didn't mean it, Em. The Lord knows I didn't mean it.”

Em looked at her blankly. “What are you talkin' about?” she asked.

“That Henderson boy,” cried Sadie. “He caught up with me in the woods. He was holdin' me and clawin' me and screamin' for the others. I didn't know what to do; I was scared. I tripped him; he fell over backwards, and I jumped on him and hit him in the head with a big rock. I just couldn't seem to stop hittin' him. I only meant to knock him out, but when I looked—OH, GOD!”

Sadie leaned back against the door, and began to chuckle and then to laugh. Soon the whole room was filled with wild, hysterical laughter. The dusk had fallen, and the bright flames from the limestone fireplace played weird shadows around the room. They danced in the blackness of the insane woman's eyes; they seemed to lash her hysteria into a wilder frenzy.

Em sat on the bed, horrified and dazed, her eyes filled with bewilderment and terror. She was hypnotized by Sadie, and her dark, evil laughter.

“But you'll let me stay, won't you, Em?” the woman shrieked. Then she looked into Em's eyes. She stopped laughing. “Please, Em,” she begged. “I don't want them to catch me. I don't want to die; I want to live. They've done this to me; they've made me the way I am.”

She looked into the fire. She knew that she would have to go. Then presently she asked, “Em, what part of the swamp aren't they going to cover today?”

Deliberately Em sat up, her eyes burning with hysterical tears. “They aren't goin' to cover the Hawkins' section till tomorrow.” When she had told the lie, she felt her stomach sink; she felt as if she were falling through a thousand years.

“Goodbye, Em.”

“Goodbye, Sadie.”

Sadie walked out of the front door and Em watched her until she reached the edge of the swamp and disappeared into its dark jungle-like depths.

“Well, I'm shore tellin' you, Jep, you just ain't got the sense you wuz born with if you gonna go on in these woods lookin' for that convict.”

The boy who spoke was small, with a nut-brown face covered with freckles. He looked eagerly at his companion.

“Listen here,” Jep said. “I know very well whut I'm doin'—an' I don't need none of yo' advice or none of yo' sassy mouth.”

“Boy, I do believe you is crazy. Whut would yo' ma say if she was to know you was out here in these spooky ol' woods lookin' fo' some ol' convict?”

“Lemmie, I'm not askin' fo' none of yo' mouth, an' I sho' ain't askin' fo' you to be taggin' along here with me. Now you can go on back—Pete an' I will go on and find that ol' buzzard—then we two, just us two, will go down an' tell those searchin' parties where he be. Won't we, Pete, ol' boy?” He patted a brown-and-tan dog trotting along by his side.

They walked on a little farther in silence. The boy called Lemmie was undecided what to do. The woods were dark and so quiet. Occasionally a bird would flutter or sing in the trees, and when their path ran near the stream they could hear it moving swiftly along over the rocks and tiny waterfalls. Yes, indeed, it was too quiet. Lemmie hated the thought of walking back to the edge of the woods alone, but he hated the idea of going on with Jep even worse.

“Well, Jep,” he said finally, “I guess I'll just mosey on back. I'm shore not goin' on into this place any farther, not with all these trees an' bushes every place that ol' convict could hide behind, an' jump on you, an' kill you deader'n an ol' doorknob.”

“Aw, go on back, you big sissy. I hope he gits you while you is goin' back thru' the ol' woods by yuhself.”

“Well, so long—I guess I'll be seein' you in school tomorrow.”

“Maybe. So long.”

Jep could hear Lemmie running back through the underbrush, his feet scurrying like a scared rabbit. “That's what he is,” thought Jep, “just a scared rabbit. What a baby Lemmie is. We never should have brought him along with us, should we've, Pete?”

He demanded the last vocally, and the old brown-and-tan dog, perhaps frightened by the silence being too suddenly interrupted, let out a quick, scared, little bark.

They walked on in silence. Every now and then Jep would stop and stand listening attentively into the forest. But he heard not the slightest sound to indicate a presence trespassing here, other than his own. Sometimes they would come to a cleared place carpeted with soft green moss and shaded by big magnolia trees covered with large white blossoms—smelling of death.

“I guess maybe I should've listened to Lemmie. It shore 'nuff is spooky down in here.” He stared up into the tops of the trees, every now and then seeing patches of blue. It was so dark here in this part of the woods—almost like night. Suddenly he heard a whirring sound. Almost in that second he recognized it; he stood paralyzed with fear—then Pete let out a short, horrible, little yelp. It broke the spell. He turned around, and there was a big rattlesnake poised to strike a second time. Jep jumped as far as he could, tripped, and fell flat on his face. Oh God! This was the end! He forced his eyes to look around, expecting to see the snake whirling through the air at him, but when his eyes finally came into focus, nothing was there. Then he saw the tip of a tail and a long cord of singing buttons crawling into the undergrowth.

For several minutes he couldn't move, he was so dazed by shock, and his body was numb with terror. Finally he raised up on his elbow and looked for Pete, but Pete wasn't anywhere in sight. He jumped up and began to search frantically for the dog. When he found him, Pete had rolled down a red gulley and was lying dead at the bottom, all stiff and swollen. Jep didn't cry; he was too frightened for that.

Now what would he do? He didn't know where he was. He began to run and then to tear madly through the forest, but he couldn't find the path. Oh, what was the use? He was lost. Then he remembered the stream, but that was useless. It ran through the swamp, and in parts it was too deep to wade; and in the summer it was sure to be infested with moccasins. Darkness was coming on, and the trees began to throw grotesque shadows about him.

“How does that ol' convict stand it in here?” he thought. “Oh, my God, the convict! I forget all 'bout him. I've got to get out of this place.”

He ran on and on. Finally he came to one of the cleared spots. The moon was shining right in the center. It looked like a cathedral.

“Maybe if I climb a tree,” he thought, “I can see the field an' figger out a way to get there.”

He looked around for the tallest of the trees. It was a straight, slick sycamore, with no branches near the bottom. But he was a good climber. Maybe he could make it.

He clasped the trunk of the tree with his strong, little legs and began to pull himself upward, inch by inch. He would climb two feet and slip down one. He kept his head strained back, looking up at the nearest branch he could clasp. When he reached it, he grabbed it and let his legs dangle free from the tree trunk. For a minute he thought he was going to fall, dangling there in space. Then he swung his leg over the next limb and sat astraddle it, panting for breath. After awhile he continued on up, climbing, limb after limb. The ground got farther and farther away. When he reached the top, he stuck his head up over the tree top and looked around, but he could see nothing except trees, trees everywhere.

He descended to the broadest and the strongest of the tree limbs. He felt safe up here, with the ground so far away. Up here no one could see him. He would have to spend the night in the tree. If only he could stay awake and not fall asleep. But he was so tired that everything seemed to be whirling around and around. He shut his eyes for a minute and almost lost his balance. He came out of his trance with a start and slapped his cheeks.

It was so quiet, he couldn't even hear the crickets nor the bull frogs' nightly serenade. No, everything was quiet and frightening and mysterious. What was that? He jumped with a start; he heard voices; they were coming close; they were almost upon him! He looked down to the earth and he could see two figures moving in the underbrush. They were coming towards the clearing. Oh, oh, thank God! It must be some of the searchers.

But then he heard one of the voices, tiny and frightened, scream: “Stop! Oh please, please lemme go! I want to go home!”

Where had Jep heard that voice before? Of course, it was Lemmie's voice!

But what was Lemmie doing way down here in these woods? He had gone home. Who had him? All these thoughts ran through Jep's mind; then suddenly the realization of what was happening dawned on him. The escaped convict had Lemmie!

A voice, deep and threatening, split the air: “Shut up, you brat!”

He could hear Lemmie's scared sobbing. Their voices were quite clear now; they were almost directly under the tree. Jep held his breath with fear. He could hear his heart pound, and he could feel the ache of his stomach's knotted muscles.

“Sit down here, kid,” the convict commanded, “and stop that damn cryin'!”

Jep could see that Lemmie fell helplessly to the ground and rolled over on the soft moss, trying desperately to stifle his sobs.

The convict was still standing. He was big and bulged with muscles. Jep could not see his hair; it was covered with a massive straw hat—the kind the convicts wear when they are working on the chain gang.

“Now tell me, kid,” he demanded of Lemmie by shoving him, “how many people are there out lookin' for me?”

Lemmie didn't say a thing.

“Answer me!”

“I don't know,” Lemmie answered faintly.

“All right. O.K. But tell me—what parts of the woods have they already covered?”

“I don't know.”

“Aw, damn you.” The convict slapped Lemmie across the cheek. Lemmie broke into renewed hysterics.

“Oh, no! No! This can't be happening to me,” Jep thought. “It's all a dream, a nightmare. I'll wake up and find out that it ain't so.”

He shut his eyes and opened them, in a physical attempt to prove that it was all just a nightmare. But there they were, the convict and Lemmie; and here he was, perched in the tree, scared even to breathe. If only he had something heavy, he could drop it on top of the convict's head and knock him cold. But he didn't have anything. He stopped his thoughts in mid-passage, for the convict was speaking again.

“Well, come on, kid; we can't stay here all night. The moon's goin' out, too—must be goin' to rain.” He scanned the sky through the tree tops.

Jep's blood froze with terror; it seemed as if he was looking right at him; he was looking right at the branch he was sitting on. Any minute he would see him. Jep closed his eyes. The seconds pounded past like hours. When he finally got up the courage to look again, he saw that the convict was trying to pick Lemmie up off the ground. He hadn't seen him, thank God!

The convict said: “Come on, kid, before I cuff yuh a good one.”

He was holding Lemmie half way up, like a sack of potatoes. Then suddenly he dropped him. “Shut up that cryin'!” he screamed at him. So electrifying was the tone of his voice that Lemmie stopped dead still. Something was the matter. The convict was standing by the tree, listening attentively into the forest.

Then Jep heard it, too. Something was coming through the undergrowth. He heard twigs snapping and bushes being scraped past. From where he was sitting he could see what it was. There were ten men closing in a circle around the clearing. But the convict could only hear the noise. He wasn't sure what it was; he became panicky.

Lemmie yelled, “Here we are! Here—Over he—!” But the convict had grabbed him; he was furtively pressing Lemmie's face into the ground. The little body was squirming and kicking, and then, all of a sudden, it went limp and lay very still. Jep saw the convict take his hand off the back of the boy's head. Something was the matter with Lemmie. Then Jep saw it in a flash; it was like something he just knew—Lemmie was dead! The convict had smothered him to death!

The men were no longer creeping in; they broke through the underbrush furiously. The convict saw he was trapped; he backed up against the trunk of Jep's tree and began to whine.

And then it was all over. Jep yelled and the men held their arms to catch him. He jumped and landed, unharmed, in the arms of one of the men.

The convict was handcuffed and crying. “That damned kid! It was all his fault!”

Jep looked over at Lemmie. One of the men was bending over him. Jep heard him turn to a man by his side and say, “Yep, he's dead all right.”

It was then that Jep began to laugh; he laughed hysterically, and hot salty tears ran down his cheeks.